


Fairies, Fathers, and Forevers

by CrystelGreene



Series: Faires, Fathers, and Forevers [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Bottom Draco, Bottoming, Commitment, Complete, Creature Draco Malfoy, Creature Fic, Down and Out Draco, Drama, Drarry, Explicit Sexual Content, Fairy Come, Fairy Draco, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Mystery, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Powerful Harry, Pretty Draco, Protective Harry, Protectiveness, Rentboy Draco, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Inexperience, Slash, Top Harry, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 54,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystelGreene/pseuds/CrystelGreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Harry was looking for that night in Knockturn Alley was a quick hook-up. But then he finds himself saving Draco Malfoy from a Dementor attack and taking him home to take care of his injuries and shattered sense of self. Since Draco’s fairy genes kicked in on his twenty-first birthday, he has been homeless and working as a rent boy. He needs Harry’s help to embrace his new identity as a half-breed and to get his life back on track. And to survive: It turns out that Dementor attack wasn’t a coincidence. Draco’s father can’t live with the fact the Malfoy name was erased from the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but he’s not the only danger to Draco’s safety. Harry needs all his skills as an Auror to protect the man who is the love of his life. Yes, his former nemesis not only mixes up Harry’s happy single routine with his impertinence and inability to tidy things away, Draco Malfoy has Harry rethink his attitude on happy ever afters. Suddenly everything being well, having his scar not hurting, and topping another pretty stranger each Saturday night isn’t enough anymore.<br/>PART ONE OF THE FAIRIES, FATHERS, AND FOREVERS SERIES; COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A birthday party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMightyFlynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightyFlynn/gifts).



> [prompt](http://bottom-draco.livejournal.com/1460246.html?thread=7889942#t7889942) by TheMightyFlynn: Draco's inheritance finally comes in when he's 21 and, while everyone was expecting him to be part-Veela, it turns out he is actually part-fairy.  
>  _Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to J.K. Rowling._

An unusual accumulation of shrieking girls answering to pretentious names, vomiting from too much firewhisky, and wearing flimsy nothings that come at the cost of top-of-the-range tournament brooms.

And a pissing contest for the guys.

“It’s Draco Malfoy’s birthday party,” the girl behind the counter stage-whispers over the music as she hands me my ginger butterbeer. “Draco Malfoy? Only son of the Malfoys? People say he has just moved to London to start working with the Ministry! And he’ll be twenty-one next Friday, and this is his party!”

Whose else would it be.

A purple-faced Pansy Parkinson pumps her hand down the front of Draco’s trousers, pulls his wand out, and holding it to her throat announces in an ear-splitting, magically magnified screech, “And the winner of the Flying Pumpkin long distance pissing finals is… Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

Who else would it be.

“Why would anyone celebrate their birthday a week early. And why does he have to choose the Flying Pumpkin of all places to throw his upper class orgies,” I grumble, rolling my eyes at Hermione and Ron.  
The Flying Pumpkin is our usual hang-out, it has been ever since the three of us moved to the capital after college and started working. Over a hundred different flavours of butterbeer, great Muggle music, nice, mixed crowd. Totally not Draco Malfoy’s scene.

I haven’t seen him in three years, not since the Dark Lord went down. All I’ve heard of Draco Malfoy is that he studied at some fancy college, then started managing the family estate for his father when his mother died. Yeah, he basically disappeared from my life after the Battle of Hogwarts.  
And that was fine by me.  
Really, I don’t know why he doesn’t keep to his oversized manor in the backwoods and do his partying where I don’t have to see it. The Malfoys are still one of the richest families in the wizarding world. Some things just don’t change it seems, even though we are all supposed to be equal these days.  
So there’s absolutely no reason for him to apply for a job as an intern with the Department of Magical Development. And even less reason for me to endorse said application. Yeah, it landed on my desk right this morning, with an audio-post-it attached to it asking me to preside over the selection panel. I hate everything admin. But it seems with everyone being equal and stuff, everyone has to do their part when it comes to time sinks like staff recruitment, even a top-ranking Ministry exec and former war hero like me. No class-consciousness here, but I’m an Auror, and I chose to be one because I’m good at duelling. Not to sit in some frigging panel and discuss whether or not one Draco L. Malfoy, born June 5th 1980, juvenile offender in resocialization, five N.E.W.T.s marked Outstanding, meets our criteria for internships in the Potions Section of the DMD.

I turn to my butterbeer so I don’t have to watch him getting deep-throated by Pansy Parkinson. Her tongue is freakishly long.

“They say all Slytherin girls have tongues like that,” Hermione says, reading my thoughts, and as usual using them as an opportunity to spout some of her limitless wisdom. She didn’t get a permanent position as a professor for maginetics at the London University of Magic at age twenty for nothing.

“Might be because of residual snake genes,” she continues, settling back in her chair. “Okay, alien genes. I’m sure you’ve heard that a considerable portion of the wizarding community is assumed to be carrying gene snaps of non-human creatures. But did you know there’s a theory the Sorting Hat is really a special kind of gene analysis tool? Okay, the Sorting. It’s really old magic, so no one has ever been able to explain conclusively how it works. But contrary to common belief the Sorting might not be based on the hat reading people’s minds, but really on hair samples, and…”

“If it’s snake genes that make someone a Slytherin, then why would they affect just the girls’ tongues, what about the boys’ tongues,” I sullenly interrupt. I’m not really in the mood for one of Hermione’s Muggle style lectures.

“Yeah, Hermione, what about the boys’ tongues, Harry here would want to hear all about those, obviously, the old fairy,” Ron says. He pauses, hoping I’ll take the bait. I don’t; I’m not in the mood for that, either. Also, he’s been giving me shit like that for three whole years now, ever since I broke up with his little sister and came out. He knows perfectly well he's crossing all kinds of lines, but for a Weasley, there has ever only been one rule, and that’s family loyalty. I can live with that.

Across the room, there’s another burst of drunken laughter. Apparently Malfoy has stripped some item of clothing off Pansy Parkinson. Next thing I know, an oversized jewel-encrusted stiletto zooms past my head to crash into a bowl of Sangria on the table right behind me. Everyone around is spattered with wine. A tall wizard in a ruined dress suit who’s looking like the victim of attempted murder gets up from his chair and furiously demands who the fuck is responsible for this shit.  
Over in the part of the bar that’s occupied by Malfoy’s party mob, half a dozen burly guys, their dress robes in wild disarray, assemble into a sort of fighting formation. I recognize Marcus Flint at the front. He hasn’t changed much since the days he used to send people off to Hogwarts’ hospital wing by shoving them off their brooms as captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He’s still looking like he’s half–troll.

“Oh no, this could turn into a full blown bar fight,” Hermione murmurs, “let’s leave.”

“Leave? Now? Are you fucking crazy, woman?” Ron exclaims.

A slender boy gracefully sidesteps the thugs, directing them to fall back with a bored wave of his pale hand. His gelled hair gleams in the torch light like goblin gold.

Draco L. Malfoy.

Oh no, definitely not leaving.

“You there, did you just throw that shoe?” the man in the dress suit demands, glaring at Malfoy, adopting a threatening stance.

Malfoy walks up to him, his trademark arrogant sneer firmly in place. The man stumbles backwards. I don’t understand how Malfoy does it, he isn’t using his wand or anything, but the man retreats, his attitude combusting.

“All of this is just a disgrace,” he mumbles, folding into his chair, gesturing at the mess around.

“I’d have to agree, sir,” Malfoy says. “It truly is a disgrace, all this Muggle stuff that’s around these days. Dress suits. Drinks called Sangria.” He turns his back on the man, dismissing him, and motions at Hermione. “Dentists’ daughters.”

Next to me, Ron flares up like a Chinese Fireball.

Magic isn’t allowed in the Flying Pumpkin. House rules. So Hermione and I are reduced to snatch his wand from his hand and kick his shin, respectively, to remind him he’ll lose his job if he gets arrested for affray yet again. Now that Ginny’s dating again, he’s got a lot of guys to examine and, apparently, give a piece of his mind.  
It seems he hasn’t grasped yet that as a police officer with the Ministry’s Department of Law Enforcement, he’s supposed to defend the rules, not break them. All he came up with when his own boss asked him why he wrecked Ginny’s new boyfriend’s flat by unleashing her set of Quidditch balls in it was, “Isn’t it legit for people to watch out for their family”, his standard excuse. Anyway, he really can’t afford to Avada Kedavra anyone at the moment.

His face goes as red as his hair with the effort to keep his cool. Malfoy hasn’t spared him even one glance. The fact is, he hasn’t been looking at anyone but me during the whole scene. Now he moves over towards our table, a subtle stutter in his step betraying how drunk he is.

“Behold, it’s the Saviour,” he coos. “With his two funny friends. One a fox half-breed and the other one the daughter of a dentist.”

With a roar of rage, Ron flies from his seat. Discreetly flipping her wrist, Hermione performs a neat covert Half Stunning Spell. Ron slumps back into his chair, his expression transitioning to relaxed cluelessness. Hermione levelly says, “Two dentists.”

“Dentists,” Malfoy repeats, apparently stuck on the term, but still looking only at me. “Forever the third wheel, aren’t you, Potter? How come you can’t get yourself a date? How hard can it be to get laid for Harry front page beauty Potter?”

His gaze is bleary, his looks are corrupted by the puffy redness of skin and dark circles under the eyes that come with too much alcohol and too little sleep.

“Happy birthday, Draco,” I say softly. “And congratulations.” I motion in the direction of the piss bucket. “What’s all the competition. It’s supposed to be a chill night out for you, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer, it’s like he’s listening. I don’t know why he’d listen to me, but I’m going to use the opportunity. I get up. When I step up to him, I’m towering over him. He must have stopped growing at seventeen while I didn’t. I’m a head taller than he is and almost twice as broad. It feels good. Right.

“Why are you still trying so hard, Draco. What is it that you need to prove to me,” I say, my voice so low only he can hear me. “Tell me, Draco. What do you want from me?”

He sort of breaks at that moment. His lids come down over his cracked eyes and he turns away, his shoulders twisting. It almost looks like he’s suppressing a sob. He can’t be. He’s just walking away because he’s too drunk to come up with one of his snappy retorts and doesn’t care to lose face.

“Harry, man, you so rule,” Ron yelps. He’s rubbing his eyes, he only just came round from getting half-stupefied. “That was better than when you aced the Dark Lord, man!”

He clinks his beer mug against mine as I sit down again. I grin back at him and take a swig from my mug, but something has happened to that butterbeer, it tastes like the contents of the piss bucket. Putting the mug down, I observe Draco as he weaves his way through the crowded bar, back to his party friends, away from me. I register his pretty build and his special way of moving, ever graceful even though he’s drunk and stumbling. Yeah, and his beautiful white-gold hair.  
People say he’s of Veela ancestry, and fuck, I know he is. I’ve got to rearrange my junk in my jeans just from watching him in those old-fashioned, tent-like robes from behind. I wish I was wearing one of those myself. I shouldn’t have caved to Hermione’s claims that Muggle fashion is a statement in favour of diversity, plus can do magic setting off people’s assets.

“Harry?”

It’s Hermione.

On no account can she be allowed to read my thoughts now.

“They say he’s part Veela,” I say hurriedly, “Could he be? Aren’t Veela supposed to be female only? What do you say, Hermione?”

She pounces on that like a tarantula on a mouse. Thank Godric for her obsession with scientific facts.

“Okay. Back to witches and wizards who carry non-human genes. The degree to which the condition affects appearance and personality will vary depending on the percentage of the alien genetic heritage, obviously, but in all cases, while some characteristics will be present from birth, the full individual phenotype only manifests itself at the age of maturity which is still twenty-one in the wizarding world. Meaning, “ she takes a gulp of breath, then goes on, “meaning that it’ll be much clearer a week from now whether the general assumption that Draco Malfoy is a Veela gene carrier is actually correct. All we can do for now is speculate. Okay, Veela. Theirs are the only non-human genes that are considered acceptable among purebloods, even desirable. Just as a footnote, the species considered the worst in this context are trolls, for obvious reasons, and fairies, because of their lack of wit and obscure sexuality. Okay, the Malfoys. Narcissa Malfoy’s model looks have often been attributed to Veela ancestry, though it has never been officially confirmed by the family. I’d say her hair matches Veela hair in colour and texture, but let’s not forget she’s the only one of three sisters with this special characteristic. Also, we’ve got to take into consideration that Lucius Malfoy’s hair is very similar to his wife’s, but he’s most definitely not Veela. His hair and air aside, he’s got the appeal of a vacuum cleaner sales rep. The question we’ve got to ask ourselves in the case of Draco Malfoy is, is the Veela hair gene dominant or is it recessive…”

“My own,” Ron says. She throws him an exasperated glance, but he can do it, he can shut her up, just by saying that pet name. As good as.

“To sum things up, Harry,” she says, turning her back on Ron, “It’s too early to pass a final verdict, but yes, male or female, Draco Malfoy might in fact be part-Veela.” And then she adds thoughtfully, “Only then he would be likely to have a pull on all the girls, wouldn’t he.”

“He has, can’t you see?” Ron gestures sullenly at the girls crowding Draco and trying to take advantage of the fact Pansy Parkinson isn’t hanging off his neck for once. She has retrieved her shoe and is busy with trying out cleansing spells. Apparently the last one turned the Sangria on her stiletto into something brownish and smelly.

“Can’t you see,” Ron repeats.

“He doesn’t have a pull on me, and I’m a girl, too, can’t you see?” Hermione snaps, leaving Ron with his mouth hanging open as he gropes for an answer.  
It’s always a treat to see my best friend getting flattened like this by my best friend forever. Bffs, that’s what Ron has called Hermione and me ever since I told the two of them I’m gay. He insists I call him my pal friend when I introduce him to people these days, not my best friend. Because best friend might be abbreviated to bf, which could be mistaken for meaning boyfriend.

As if I’d ever go for him.

I’m still looking over at where Malfoy just extricated himself from his girl fans to go to the loo. I wonder why he needs to go there, with all the contest pissing he has done. Not that I’ve actually seen him in the act. I wonder if I shouldn’t go take a piss myself and make up for the missed opportunity. And I’ve got to cut that line of thought this second.

When I turn back to the table, I meet Hermione’s gaze. She’s looking at me like I was a bug under her microscope. I don’t like that, I don’t like that at all. And there it comes.

“Harry, does he have a pull on you?”

I take a sip of butterbeer and start coughing. When I’m done, Hermione continues seamlessly, “I mean, with you being, you know, you should feel those Veela vibes, shouldn’t you? It would only be logical.”

It would. It is. Totally. Hell.

Hell, I don’t want to discuss Draco Malfoy and his pull, not with Hermione, anyway, or with Ron. Or anyone.

“I mean, he’s extraordinarily good-looking, from a strictly objective point of view, yeah, Ron, I’m sorry, but I won’t deny the obvious facts, not even for your sake, so, Harry…”

“Don’t you remember anything of our time in Hogwarts?” I say heatedly. “I’ve always hated him, and he hated me right back.”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s a truth universally acknowledged you can strongly dislike a person and still feel sexually attracted to them,” she retorts smoothly, unperturbed.

It’s funny really, all of Ron’s offensive talking hasn’t once made me feel half as uncomfortable as Hermione’s utterly relaxed approach to the fact I like guys. The fact I’m sexually attracted to them.

By Godric, I wish she was just a tiny bit prissy. Like normal girls who don’t use terms like sexually in polite conversation.

Ironically, it’s Ron who saves me.

“Would you stop talking about Harry wanting to stick his wand up Malfoy’s fat Death Eater’s ass for a minute, please,” he growls.

I would have been grateful for a different kind of phrasing, but it does the trick. I'm off the hook. For now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very much appreciated! <3


	2. Draco Malfoy

Draco Malfoy.

He hasn’t changed at all.

He looks exactly like he did when he wasn’t yet eighteen. Like when I last saw him after the Battle of Hogwarts.

I remember it like today. I had killed for the first time in my life, Fred Weasley was lying dead, all those people were dead, people who had been friends, people who were strangers. Or enemies. All dead. God, the bodies everywhere. I ghosted through the remains of what had been the only home I had ever known, literally stumbling over those mutilated corpses, and as I searched the rubble, Dumbledore’s legacy was like on loop in my head, mocking me, tormenting me.

_Love is stronger than death. Stronger than death. Death._

Until I saw them in the Front Hall, their fair heads shining in the light the healers had conjured to operate on location. They were cowering on the steps of the big staircase, Lucius Malfoy staring into nothing, Narcissa Malfoy hugging her son like he had returned from the dead. And Draco let her hold him, his eyes closed, his body swaying like under some incapacitating spell. But he was unharmed. He was safe. I went down the stairs, jumping smouldering beams and gaping chasms, I went down to him without anyone noticing, just to make sure. I can’t describe what it did to me to see him preserved from destruction. But ever from that moment of deliverance in the middle of dust and debris and death, I have known.

Well, I guess I’ve known before. Only I didn’t admit to it, not even to myself. But there had been other such moments of truth before. Like in my sixth year at Hogwarts, when he was lying at my feet, cut open and bleeding, bleeding. Severus Snape saved him, but Draco nearly died of that curse. Sectumsempra. It had been me who had cast it; we were having a fight and I used that piece of dark magic on him without knowing what it was. I had nightmares of Draco bleeding to death for weeks after. I told myself it was all the gore, the shock of it. And it was; but also, it was the realization that he could be destroyed. It made the ground crumble under my feet more than any image of war and murder I had seen, more than when I first learnt the story of my own parents’ death, more even than watching Sirius fall through the Veil.

He was Malfoy, forever scheming, sneering, madly annoying Malfoy. He was supposed to go on being my Hogwarts’ nemesis indefinitely.

But those days when we had been sharing classes and our kids’ conflicts were coming to an end. That sixth year was my last at Hogwarts. We never met up as fellow students again.

I was a complete mess all through the next year when I was drifting through the wilderness with my friends. I couldn’t deal with having to watch Hermione and Ron being a couple, and being cut off from that kind of closeness myself. Of course I didn’t want Draco like that; he hated me, and I hated him. But I hated the sheer physical distance between us even more. It had to be his Veela genes. How could little scraps of Draco Malfoy’s DNA have the power to make me feel this miserable? Make me feel in a way that made absolutely no sense at all? That was the question that kept me awake at night, when the Dark Lord was back and the job at hand was to come up with a plan to conclusively deal with him.

The pathetic truth is, I didn’t focus like, at all. I allowed us to spend weeks and weeks drifting, and completely relied on chance. It’s nothing short of a miracle we brought Voldemort down in the end, it was due to coincidence and pure luck, mostly. I didn’t deserve all the praise I got. I certainly didn’t deserve people dubbing me The Saviour.

Nobody knows I was just dealing with what came up as best I could while what really was on my mind were my totally irrelevant teenage emotions, my hurt, my confusion. My absurd yearning.

When we met at Hogwarts again, for the last time, he was a Death Eater, and ambushing me in the Room of Requirements. Then he nearly died in the Fiend Fire his friend Crabbe had conjured up. Everything Voldemort was wiped from my brain in those moments in the flames. All I knew was I had to get him out of that burning hell alive. And I did. Instead of trying to kill him, because he was a Death Eater and this was the Battle of Hogwarts, I saved his life.

Draco Malfoy has been struggling to get on the wrong side of me since we were both eleven years old. And he transitioned seamlessly from school bully to Death Eater. And I’ve been in love with him throughout. Now he’s a convicted member of a terrorist organisation, walking free on parole, and I still am.

Fuck, I still am.

Why the fuck didn’t he stay away. Why did I have to run into him tonight.

Why can’t I stop thinking about that moment he turned away from me. It was what I had aimed at, it was one more triumph in our apparently never-ending string of clashes.

Why the fuck does it feel like total, utter failure.


	3. An Interview

September the first. The scheduled date of Draco Malfoy’s job interview.

It’s five minutes to nine, and everyone is there, safe him. Professor Jenkins from the Potions Section, his assistant Sam Kendricks, Susan Bones from the Equal Opportunities Office, and me. We are sitting in Professor Jenkins’ office. It’s located in the basement, next to the main potions lab, and it’s gloomy and dank, thanks to the stinking oil lamps and naked stone walls. I don’t get why potions guys don’t seem to be willing to let go of the dungeon atmosphere of yore. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of charms to give this office modern day heating and to replace the pathetic oil lamps with eye-friendly lighting. Those lamps are a safety hazard, too, judging from Jenkins’ burnt beak of a nose and singed eyebrows. He’s lucky his hair didn’t suffer. It’s a mane that’s incredibly red, contradicting his wrinkly face and watering eyes. As we wait for Malfoy, Jenkins continually puts his wand to his eyelids to soak up the tears. It’s rather disgusting. Why’s Malfoy not showing up. It’s six minutes past. At ten minutes past nine, Sam Kendricks pulls a tiny bottle from his robes, squirts a gel-like substance from it and starts styling his hair. Essentially, the gel turns it from black and straight and glossy to black and super straight and super glossy. Catching my gaze, Kendricks winks at me. Okay, not going to happen. He’s got great hair, and he’s really well-built, but I don’t flirt at work. And he’s a potions guy. Ignoring him, I check my watch. It’s nine fifteen. Turning to Jenkins and Susan, I suggest to newly advertise the position.

Susan agrees emphatically. Malfoy was the only applicant, so obviously the Ministry’s pro-active approach to equality hasn’t been sufficiently communicated, and under-represented groups like half-bloods or witches haven’t been sufficiently encouraged to apply, or so she says. And surely Professor Jenkins as Head of Potions is interested in following today’s rules of good employment practice. Professor Jenkins, who keeps calling Susan Miss Jones, says all he’s interested in as Head of Potions is results, and Mr. Malfoy has got the perfect credentials, and why not simply set a new date for the interview. Susan won’t have that, and they embark on a lengthy discussion that ends with Susan shouting, “It’s B! B! Bones!”, and Jenkins echoing, sounding thoroughly confused, “Bibi Jones?”

And Draco still hasn’t come. At nine twenty-five. I’m mad, really mad he pulled this. It’s just so typical. He’s just a true Malfoy. Arrogant, self-involved, zero consideration for other people. Sends an application, then forgets all about it. He probably never intended to become an intern with the Department of Magical Development. And here we are, four people with loads to do who made time for this, for fucking Draco Lucius Malfoy, waiting for him to grace us with his presence.

And he doesn’t show up.

I’m so mad.

So mad.


	4. Knockturn Alley

I’ll go out tonight, even though it isn't a Saturday. I’ll go find myself a guy, maybe take him home. Just some guy with a nice ass. A random pickup. It’s what I do. If someone asked me about it, say Hermione, I’d tell her it takes the edge off.

Only it doesn’t, really. Not anymore.

I’ve grown sort of restless over the last years. I guess I’m on the lookout for something different. I don’t know what, exactly. It’s not like I had a special kink, apart from a bit of sub/dom. I don’t know. Of course it’s always hot to top a pretty guy, but sometimes, lately, it has been feeling a tiny bit, I don’t know. Redundant?

I’m not complaining about my life or something. Everything is running smoothly. I love my job, the thrill of it, the challenge. The victories. I’ve got great colleagues. I’ve got my friends; Ron and Hermione. We’re still a great team, the three of us. They moved in together a few months back. They’ve got a lot to discuss, couch fabrics and kitchen gadgets and stuff. There’s just so much I can take of that. We still share our Friday night drinks in the Flying Pumpkin, but apart from that, we don’t meet up as often as we used to. Most nights and most weekends, I’m alone in my flat. It’s okay, it gives me time to keep everything in order. I like my personal space shipshape. Growing up in a cupboard might have its drawbacks, but it teaches you to organize your stuff. And to feel a two-bedroom flat is all the luxury you need. I could have moved into Grimmauld Place when I started working with the Ministry, but living in a town house with twenty bedrooms would make anyone feel lonely, wouldn’t it. So I decided to just keep it locked up and rented a flat instead. My place is in a nice neighbourhood, and it’s got all kinds of modern Muggle appliances. There’s even a shared room with washing machines and dryers in the basement of the building, and I swear they work better than any laundry spell. Yeah, Saturday isn’t just Knockturn Alley Night, I’ve also made it Laundry Day.

Yeah, my private life is pretty okay. A little too much routine and monotony, some might say, but I like it that way. I used to be in mortal danger for the better part of my teenage years. I still am during weekdays. Being an Auror is my thing, but it’s not exactly a walk in the park. I know better than anyone there’s worse things than boredom. Or being alone.

And I do have my Y-Pad. It’s the most amazing thing, this small slab of Yttrium-Aluminium that contains every incantation and pop song and porn clip known to mankind; I’d say it’s the most advanced piece of magic that’ll ever be. Anyway, I love doing quests on it.

Yeah, and I know where to go on Saturday night.

None of those guys I pick up on that little street off Knockturn Alley ever made me want them to stay the night. They’re nice enough. Some are fans. Fans have enthusiasm, I like that. They tend to get clingy, though, and nobody likes clingy. The rule is, they’ve got to be gone before breakfast. I like to start my Sunday on my own, just me and my omelette. The fact of the matter is, I’m generally not that keen on other people. From what I’ve seen, sooner or later, other people mean conflict. I get to do a lot of fighting on the job, it’s why I chose the job, but I don’t need it at home. At home, I like my peace and quiet. Like I said. So for me, one-night-stands it is. It’s not like I’d be looking for my own bottom. Like I’d want anybody for keeps.

I do want a little bit more than a blowjob in the street, though. I like to fuck in bed, then cuddle for a bit afterwards. You’d think it’s not that much to ask. But in my experience, about half a minute after the sex is done with, most guys tend to reach for their wands and start doing all kinds of cleaning up. Or worse, they suggest switching.

People seem to consider being versatile as sort of a requirement these days. If you tell them you only top, they accuse you of having issues. Like just because your name is Harry Potter, you’re assuming all the world must want your spunk up their ass. I don’t believe that at all. I just happen to like topping.

And cuddling.

It’s not that much to ask, is it.

It’s not like I’d want my very own personal bottom for keeps.

-

It’s a moonless, starless night. Cold and foggy, too. I gather my robes together for warmth as I’m walking up Knockturn Alley, but it doesn’t help much. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone out tonight after all. I was horny when I left my flat, real horny, but there’s not much left of the ten inches I got from those clips on bigwands.cum. The chill is creeping up my spine. Knockturn Alley looks gloomier than ever. I light some of the decrepit lanterns. The yellowish light gives the street and its crooked buildings a creepy glow. With every step I take, I feel more lonely. Suddenly I realize my whole existence is pointless.

And that’s when I understand.

Dementors should be locked up in their cages at Azkaban, never to be allowed to roam the land again. But there must have been a breakout, at least one of those deadly creatures must be right around the corner, or lurk in the black house entrance across the street, or...

There’s a bone-rattling scream. Drawing my wand, I charge forward, following the curve of the street, firing off lighting spells as I go. And there it is, a big, looming shadow above, blacking out the lantern I just lit. Below, a man is crouching in the street, and as the Dementor slowly descends on him, I can see his face in the flickering yellow light.

I recognize him instantly, and my voice dies in my throat with shock.

Draco. Oh my God, it’s Draco.

“Expecto Patronum,” he calls out weakly. A silvery wisp emerges from the tip of his wand, like of a candle going out; that’s all. Then the wand clatters onto the cobblestones. The Dementor comes swooping down. I fight for my voice. I’ve got to cast my Patronus, I’ve got to. I can’t let this happen. Draco losing his soul. Draco looking at me with his spirit gone. I fight the vision, because I know it’s what’s blocking me. But I can’t do it; it’s the first time in my life I can’t spell out the Patronus charm. As I watch in horror, the black creature hovers above its victim on the ground. It’s stalling. Somehow it’s being kept at bay. That never happens. Then the Dementor breaks through whatever barrier held it back. It seizes Draco’s body, it’s going to suck his soul from him. Draco’s head falls back in submission, and that is my image for my Patronus charm. I don’t hear myself intone the words over the roar in my ears, but I see my stag burst from my wand at last. Glittering and so gigantic it dwarfs the houses lining the street, it charges at the Dementor and douses it in seconds.

In an instant, the alley is back to its regular, everyday gloom. A mouse scurries past me, there’s the noise of a cart clattering over the pavement in the distance.

Draco is lying motionless. I rush to his side, kneeling down next to him on the cold ground. My hands shaking, I cradle his head in my palm and say his name. He doesn’t react; he’s unconscious. There’s blood glistening on my fingers, on the cobblestones, in his hair. He must have smashed his head when the Dementor let go of him. Following textbook first aid routine, I bend over him and tune my senses to his breathing. Five seconds, seven, ten. Then I allow myself to decide the warm draught that’s feebly caressing my cheek is real. He’s breathing like he’s asleep. That means his soul is safe. He’s safe. He hurt his head, he’s probably got a concussion, but the Dementor didn’t get to him.

I sit back on my haunches, forcing my own ragged breathing back under control. For the first time, I really look at him.

And that is when I notice the change.

His body is emaciated, instead of his habitual robes he’s wearing torn jeans and a t-shirt that’s way too tight, and his hair is a mat of filthy strands. But that’s not what has me stare at him in stunned disbelief. His features are altered. There’s a subtle but unmistakable change in his bone structure. Even with all the smut, I can see his face has gone from good-looking to ethereal. All the lines and angles are finer, more delicate.

And his ears are pointy.

He turned twenty-one three months ago, and as I’m looking at his filthy, blood-smeared, beautiful face, I can tell beyond doubt he’s a half-breed.

Only his non-human ancestry isn’t Veela.

It’s fairy.


	5. Fairyboy

I Apparate us home.

I put him on the couch in the living room, carefully, like he was made of glass, then bend over him to check his vitals again. He’s still out from hitting his head on the stony street. The blood has soaked his hair, and his grey shirt front, too. A stack of little cards slips from the chest-pocket of his shirt. They’re stained with blood, but I can still see there’s a little monthly planner printed on them, and the text scrolling over it.

_Want something different? Select a free slot and Summon Fairyboy._

He can do the Protean Charm, I remember that from the old days. God, he’s been selling himself. To strangers who’d select a free slot in his virtual diary. It ties my stomach into knots. Fairyboy. God. So that’s what Hermione meant by obscure sexuality. That’s what his fairy genes did to him. His Change left him a whore.

He’s shifting, groaning with pain, still unconscious. Shit, I’ve got to focus. As I take up his wrist to feel his pulse, I see he isn’t wearing the Dark Mark. His pulse is a flutter under my fingers. He’s groaning again, feebly trying to push me away. There’s no time to think about anything; I’ve got to concentrate on what’s to be done. Stabilize his heart rate. Try to get him conscious. Treat his wound.

I apply a pulse-balancing charm, then put a pillow under his head. Leaving my hand on his brow, I say his name. And he opens his eyes and looks at me. His eyes are big, much bigger than I remember, and they are the clearest of greys. It’s like a distorting veil has fallen away from them, leaving no attitude, no disguise. Just that intangible shine that Dementor had come to take from him.

If he had looked at me like this once, only once in all the years I’ve known him, he wouldn’t be lying here, injured and soiled in ways much worse than lice and grime. I would have known it’s my duty to protect him, and I would have prevented this.

Oh Godric help me, he’s got the most beautiful eyes.

-

He doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure he has regained full orientation. I explain to him he’s in my flat, and that I’m going to patch him up, and that everything is going to be fine. For starters, I cast a simple bathing spell over him that doesn’t require any stripping. While the spell works on him, dissolving the filth and dried blood, his lids close again. I get him dry with a towelling charm, then start stitching up the wound at the back of his head. It takes me twenty minutes. It should be done with a flick of the wand, but then I’m not a trained healer. It’s a good thing he’s out again so he doesn’t flinch or get restless. Finally I get my first aid kit from the bathroom to put some iodine on the stitches and the open scratches on his elbows. I know there are all kinds of fancy disinfecting potions, but they tend to irritate the skin, and I’ve found a spray from the Muggle drugstore works just as well. And simple adhesives aren’t half bad, either. I put one on each of his elbows. When I check him for anything else that might need my attention, I see there’s fresh blood stains on his shirt front. There must be a wound under there that needs dealing with, and I’ll have to get his shirt off him for that. I grab the hem and pull it upwards, but the shirt doesn’t budge.

“I hexed that to my body. Secunda Cutis,” he says, completely startling me. He’s awake. Somehow it’s a whole different deal to be performing medical ministrations on him with him talking to me. I clear my throat.

“I need to have a look at your chest. Would you mind taking your shirt off?”

Feeling like a john, I offer him my wand, half expecting him to refuse. But he nods and takes it. The moment he does, I realize I just violated the one central rule any Auror learns on day one; never, ever give your wand away. Fairy beauty or not, he’s still Draco Malfoy. Why would I inherently trust him like this, so far as to forget my most basic training? We’ve been hurling curses at each other duelling countless times, and I know he can be counted on making use of any breach in an opponent’s guard. But before I can freak out, or try to incapacitate him with a wrestling move, he has written a tiny circle into the air with my wand and let it fly back into my hand. His shirt has split open across his chest. It’s smooth, delicately sculpted perfection, or it would be, if it weren’t for a gaping ten inches cut two hand breadths below the collarbone. Pulling myself together, I suck the blood into the tip of my wand so I can inspect the wound. It’s clean, no torn edges. This should be easy, this doesn’t require any stitches, just a simple Laesio Connexio spell. But when I say the words, nothing happens.

“You'd have to use Vulnera Sanentur on that. I’ve been trying to do it myself, but it never really worked. The slash always reopens. Can you do Vulnera Sanentur?”

I’m not a trained healer, but actually, I can. I was looking on when Snape performed that healing spell on Draco, saving his life, and it’s seared into my memory.

“Who did this to you?” I ask with my throat almost too tight to speak. Another trickle of blood pulses from the vile wound. His gaze flickers like he’s about to faint again. Shit. Shit. Quickly, I tap him with my wand, saying the one spell that counteracts Sectumsempra; Vulnera Sanentur. And the injury heals as I’m looking on, holding my breath and silently thanking whatever gods may be for the power of magic.

Only when I’m cleaning him up again, I notice his left nipple is missing. I must have made some sound, because he lifts his head and looks down his chest, following my gaze.

“Oh, that,” he says. “That’s ancient. Sixth year at Hogwarts. Remember?”

“I cut off a piece of your chest when I cursed you with Sectumsempra?”

“A piece of my heart, too.”

My own heart skips a beat at that.

“I did permanent damage to your heart?”

He laughs like I made a joke.

“Seriously, Draco, is it true? You lost a piece of your heart back then?”

He shrugs with a lopsided smile.

“Quidditch was never quite the same. I get that arrhythmia thing under stress. It’s why I quit playing that year. Don’t look like that. You didn’t know it was dark magic.”

He puts his hand to my forearm. His fingers are cold, testifying to how badly he’s still suffering from shock and loss of blood.

“And also, I guess I sort of had it coming,” he says, his voice so weak I can hardly hear the words anymore. He smirks at me, for a second totally looking like the Draco I used to know and hate, then passes out again.

-

When I walk into the living room the next morning, he’s up, apparently fully recovered. Too far recovered, as a matter of fact. The moment he sees me, he seizes something from the table, steps up to me and thrusts it in my face. It’s a small stack of cards. Fairyboy’s cards.

“So you searched me? Still nosy, are we, Potter? So now you know. I’m for sale. You didn’t have to do the saviour act to get me into your flat. You could simply have booked a free slot on my calendar, then Summoned me at the appointed time!”

“I hope you’ve at least had the sense to use protection,” I hiss back. I don’t know what I hate more, the fact he’s been giving his body away for money, or his toxic manner. Looks like he’s back to being the obnoxious, madly infuriating Malfoy I remember.

He laughs.

“What, you afraid of infection? I get it, it would be such a shame if Harry Potter, Saviour and Super-Auror, would be brought down by catching some germ from a half-breed street boy. Yeah, I’d say sorry for soiling you with my dirty blood, but then I never asked you to touch me, did I.”

His voice wavers.

I was wrong. He’s not the Malfoy I remember. Perhaps he never was.

He sounds so vulnerable that I can see right through him. He’s struggling to hold on to the one thing he got left, his sarcasm. He’s trying to get me to play the old game. But I won’t do that.

“I can’t catch anything, Aurors get vaccinated against just about everything,” I say pleasantly.

“Fine,” he says, deflated.

“And you don’t have to thank me for saving you.”

“I never asked you to do that, either,” he whispers.

Is he telling me he wanted the Dementor to take his soul?

“I didn’t want that thing to kiss me,” he says with a flicker of his former sparkle. “I’m not suicidal. And just since you asked, I’d say I know more about STD protection potions than you do, Potter. You always sucked at Potions. You should be worried about your own health and safety if Knockturn Alley is your scene.”

Now he’s done it, he got to me.

“It’s none of your business what’s my scene, Malfoy,” I bark. “And suicidal or not, letting total strangers Summon you to random places is crazy dangerous! So just so you know, your silly calendar went offline!”

“What’s offline,” he asks, honestly puzzled. Godric, so he’s still this total baby when it comes to the Muggle world, he isn’t even familiar with common adopted Muggle terms.

“I won’t have any random jerk using those cards to Summon you, so I deactivated your calendar,” I say, waiting for him to tell me to fuck off. But he just looks at me with a weird expression. Then he flops down onto the couch. With his belligerent attitude gone, his fatigue suddenly shows again.

His changed face is so gaunt and pale, and he has really thinned. Yeah, he looks like he’s suffering from some sickness, and has been for a while. Maybe it’s because of that Sectumsempra cut in his chest he didn’t get treated. But he didn’t have that wound the night of his party at the Flying Pumpkin, and he had looked worn out already then. Come to think of it, he has had this drained, sapped look since our sixth year at Hogwarts. Suddenly I feel certain it's got nothing to do with a habit of heavy partying. What if this is because I damaged his heart with Sectumsempra?

“Are you okay?” I blurt out, unable to hide my worry. “I get it you’ve been taking care of yourself when you... with the guys who you...” I clear my throat and try again. “I’m just wondering if you’ve been sick since I cursed you. You really don’t look that great.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“I mean...”

He puts his hands up with a crooked, defiant grin, stopping me.

“It’s the Change, okay? It’s the Change that’s ruined my looks.” He’s looking around. “Where’s my wand?”

I step up to the mahogany cabinet in the corner. It’s too large for a two-bedroom London flat, but it’s from Grimmauld Place and reminds me of Sirius. And also, its doors and drawers only open to its rightful owner, so it’s effectively a safe. I take Draco’s wand out of the top left drawer. His real wand.

Ten inches of hawthorn and a core of unicorn hair.

The outside made of one of the most aggressively spiky plants on the planet, the inside the essence of innocence.

I’ve thought a lot about Draco’s wand last night. Yeah, and Draco.

“Here you go,” I say, holding it out for him. His big eyes have grown huge. They’re resting on his wand with wonder and longing. I know what he’s feeling; I know what it’s like to get your real wand back.

“Come on, take it. I kept it for you.”

He looks up at me.

“I’m not allowed to use it. I’m banned from carrying a wand for life. It’s part of every Death Eater’s sentence.”

“Then take care no one sees you use it.”

I toss him the wand, and he catches it with the instinctive grace of the born Seeker. When he tentatively waves it in a half circle above his head, a shower of sparkles rains from its tip. His happy laugh hits me right in the heart.

“You’re aware you’ve just illegally armed a convicted Death Eater. You’re a weird Auror, Potter.”

“You don’t wear the Dark Mark. You’re a weird Death Eater, Malfoy.”

“I was found guilty of being one,” he says, sounding defiant.

“And how did that happen.”

“You know how it happened. There was a lot of circumstantial evidence. And I didn’t plead innocence.”

Oh my God. He was innocent. He is. My head’s a whirl. I knew it. I knew it. Or I should have. I try to remember everything I ever actually saw him do, to align the facts, make new sense of the seven years I knew him and settled for the easy way of dealing with the impact he had on me; blind hatred. I can’t think straight. All I know is that I should have seen it. He’s innocent.

And he never defended himself.

“Why not. Why not, Draco.”

He’s silent, but the answer is in the tilt of his head.

Malfoy pride.

“You could appeal to the High Court, fight to have your sentence revoked,” I croak.

“You don’t believe I was a Death Eater?” He looks at me in that weird, intense way again. “Everyone else does,” he adds, like he’s trying to convince me he’s guilty after all. I just shake my head.

“You should fight, really, you should. Go to court, Draco.”

He shrugs.

“Is it because you’ve fallen out of money?”

His smirk is back.

“I’ve been trying to hide in the gutter these last three months. I’ve been running about with that silly slash in my chest because I couldn’t stomach the idea of stepping into a healer’s office and sit down in a waiting room full of people. I had a job interview at the Potions Section of the Department of Magical Development yesterday, and I hadn’t got the nerve to show up and face that committee. As a Death Eater appealing to the High Court, I’d end up on telewizard. So, no, Harry. It’s not because I’ve fallen out of money. I wouldn’t go to court if you paid me for it, looking like this.”

He gestures at his exquisite head, and I know what he means. His new, exotic cheekbones and jaw line, the pointy ears and big eyes that mark him as a fairy half-breed.

“Sorry, Harry. You’ll have to accept you’re going against the rules if you let me keep this.”

His eyes are on his wand again as he weighs it in his hand, bends it, strokes it. Reverently. Lovingly.

I busy myself with the cabinet drawer, pretending it’s jammed.

“I’ve broken rules before. I like to think it’s what makes me a Gryffindor. And there’s no way I’ll let you run into another Dementor with no proper means of defending yourself. It’s obvious that wand you were using doesn’t work for you.”

“That’s my mother’s wand. I never managed to make it really understand me. But it’s not her wand that fucked up last night. It was me. I’ve never been able to cast a Patronus.”

I turn around to him.

“What, you still can’t do it? You’ve never cast a Patronus?”

He shrugs, looking mortified.

“You’ve got to work on that, Draco.”

“Thanks for the good advice, Auror.”

It’s funny how his smirk doesn’t irk me.

“Seriously, Draco. I could teach you.”

He carefully places his wand on the couch table, next to the first aid kit I forgot to repack and put back into the bathroom last night.

“I don’t know if that’s actually true. The Patronus Charm isn’t so much about the exact right intonation or movement of the wrist, is it. It’s about drawing on something that you have inside yourself. Something you were given at some point in your life. Like your stag. It’s your father who gave you your Patronus. That’s why you had the power to fight that Dementor last night, while I... while I...”

A shiver runs through him, and I know he’s reliving that moment when the Dementor was upon him. He has wrapped his arms around himself, hugging himself. Our eyes meet.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely.

There’s a long pause, laden with those two words and with what has changed between us.

“How did it happen, Draco.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I was in my usual spot, and suddenly that Dementor was up on that roof...”

“No, I mean how... how did you end up in that place. Doing what you did.”

This time the pause is way longer.

“When my father saw me after the Change, he... let’s say he really didn’t like it. So I came back to London to live in the streets. I survived. I didn’t care much how.”

He’s talking in the past tense. It gives me hope. He won’t go back to his usual spot in Knockturn Alley. Not if he’s talking in the past tense. He can’t go back to... to...

“All I ever did was blowjobs,” he says. Then he excuses himself to go take a shower.

He gave blowjobs to tricks in the streets, and for three whole months. It’s not exactly the kind of thing anyone would want to hear from their love interest. But he used the past tense, again.

And all he ever did was blowjobs.

When I pack up my first aid kit, I almost feel like singing.


	6. Misfits and monstrosities

We are sitting in my tiny kitchen, having breakfast. I’ve never had breakfast with anyone who spent the night in my flat before. I’m having my usual ham and eggs. All he asked for was tea and toast, and a jar of honey. He has put honey onto the toast and into his tea, big slobs of it. As he’s stirring the mess in his cup, and I’m wiping some honey smear off the table top, I can’t stop throwing surreptitious glances at him. I offered to lend him some clothes, but he only accepted the sweat pants and insisted on wearing his hexed shirt again. The tear across the chest is gone; the grey fabric is hugging his upper body like a second skin. It does look nice, unlawfully sexy as a matter of fact, but that’s obviously not the reason he won’t change out of that shirt. At least not the only one. He catches my eyes and tilts his head.

“What.”

“What’s with the shirt,” I ask. He stops smiling. Then he puts his dripping spoon on the table, exactly on the spot I’ve just wiped clean, and draws his wand. Tapping the shirt, he murmurs something. It rides up his stomach and chest. After a second’s hesitation, he pulls the shirt over his head and throws it to the side. Staring at his hairless calendar boy chest, I swallow and wait, not knowing for what. He bends his head and flexes his shoulders.

“Don’t freak out,” he whispers. Something glistening catches the light behind his neck, then unfolds on both sides of him, framing his narrow shape.

And I understand the reason why he hexed that shirt to his body.

He’s got wings.

Not quite large enough to serve him to fly, but real wings. A transparent, silvery green, they sprout from his shoulder blades like those of a giant butterfly, and all I can think is how they set off his fair skin and golden hair to perfection.

I need to swallow again, but my throat has gone too dry to do it.

He’s observing me from under his fringes.

“You’re not going to say anything?” he asks hoarsely.

You are so beautiful I want to sit and look at you the whole day. No, make love to you till the end of eternity. Oh my God, I want you, I want you more than I ever wanted anything, ever. I won’t live if I can’t have you.

“I told you not to freak out,” he says, his voice trembling.

“I’m not freaking out,” I lie. “Why would I? You’re part-fairy, so you grew wings. It’s not that unusual.”

“It’s not?”

I shrug. The truth is, I’ve got no way of knowing what’s unusual and what’s not with someone who’s part-fairy. I’ve never known anyone with fairy genes. The truth is, I’m pretty sure he’s unique.

But it seems he likes my answer. He shrugs, too, giving me that lop-sided smirk of his.

“Yeah, well. Obviously I don’t care for just anyone to see that.”

He gestures over his shoulder, then bends to pick up his shirt from the floor, folding the wings to his back again. The delicate tissue perfectly aligns with the contours of his body.

“Having mixed blood is not supposed to be a problem these days,” I say.

“Maybe it isn’t. But not everyone can be expected to be as tolerant and open-minded as Harry the Saviour Potter when it comes to misfits and monstrosities.”

I don’t trust myself to say anything to that, because he mustn’t know my true feelings. He mustn’t know that I couldn’t be more desperately in love with him if he had changed into full Veela. So I keep silent. He puts the shirt back on, looking like a perfectly regular if over-the-top beautiful model again. Then he picks up his spoon to stir his tea in that careless way of his some more. A few droplets of honey land on the floor without him noticing. Kitchen cleaning day is Thursday, normally. That would be the day after tomorrow. Looks like I’m going to have to reschedule.


	7. Portuba Muff

After breakfast he says thanks again for everything, and he’ll be on his way. I didn’t even think about the possibility he’d be leaving. And I can’t allow him to go; he’s so tired he can hardly keep his eyes open. But I can sense I mustn’t push. Carefully, cunningly, like he was one of the tiny woodland fairies that share his genes and are close to impossible to capture, I ask him to stay for a couple of days, just till he has recovered from everything. Maybe got some ideas where he wants to go. I tell him he can sleep in the second bedroom. It’s little more than a closet, but there’s a camp bed in there, and he can shut the door. And he can use my Y-pad to pass the time, or watch telewizard.

“I got twenty channels, even a couple of Muggle channels.”

“What, Muggles have telewizard, too?”

“It’s similar. They call it television, and they need a device for it.”

“A device?”

“The shows appear on a screen.”

He doesn’t seem to be able to envision that.

“Anyway, check out their programme. Watch their news. Or check out the Muggle internet. You can access it via the Y-pad. You’ll learn a lot about what’s going on in the Muggle world. It’s important.”

“How can it be important what’s going on in the Muggle world,” he says, having no idea how blasé he sounds.

“The worlds aren’t as divided as they used to be, Draco. Muggle culture is everywhere. Technology, too. We’re having classes on Muggle weaponry and electronic communication and computer surveillance in the Auror Department. Voldemort’s Death Eaters relied on nothing but magic in fights, for reasons of ideology I assume, but more and more of today’s wizard terrorists use Muggle explosives or firearms. I’m taking Muggle combat sports classes, too…”

He sits down on the couch, obviously having trouble to keep his lids open. Okay, not the time for filling him in on my job. He definitely needs to rest. So I cut short my lecture and tell him to just watch what he likes. I’m in the middle of explaining how to switch channels in my flat, which is quite a tricky business, when he falls asleep.

When I leave to go for work, I don’t lock the front door. But I make it blend in with the walls with a Porta Muro hex, effectively making my flat invisible. Nobody will be able to disturb him like this. Or to harm him.

Last night’s Dementor attack can’t have been anything else but coincidence, but I don’t seem to be able to get rid of that feeling that he needs to be kept safe.

-

I spend the better part of the day in my office, reading. It’s not at all uncommon for me to spend a workday at my desk in the Ministry. Contrary to what school kids might be imagining, being an Auror doesn’t mean you’re fighting all day. The fighting is five percent of it, if that. The rest is investigating crime scenes, interrogating suspects, and general research. And keeping fit. I spend half my days in the gym. I know that Muggles spend a lot of money on gym memberships, and I’m getting paid for working out. So that’s pretty cool.

I don’t really have a boss. Technically, the Minister of Magic is my superior, but he never interferes with what I do. Nobody would dream of controlling my working hours or anything like that. One of the perks of being Harry Potter.

And like every Auror in the Department, I’ve got my own Y-Mac in my office. Mac is short for Ministry-Accredited Research Tool, meaning I’ve got full access to every bit of information stored in the Ministry’s internal data pool, the internet. It’s being managed by the Y-Mac Department, and there’s everything in there from the latest findings in ongoing investigations to scientific articles of general interest to simple protocols of daily routines.

So the first thing I do on coming into the office is boot up my Y-Mac and check Azkaban’s data log. I filed a report to the Ministry late last night, told them I sighted a Dementor on the loose in Knockturn Alley. I didn’t mention Draco’s name or the attack on him. Media exposure is the last thing he wants. It’s also the last thing the management of Azkaban wants in such cases, or the Ministry. The entry in the prison log about last night is very short. It only says a Dementor broke out of a cage due to a technical defect at a door lock. The Dementor returned before sunrise. No known victims. The lock was repaired, all the other locks were checked and found to be in order. That’s all they write.

It doesn’t add up. Dementors are kept in cages in groups of ten to twelve. They are swarm creatures. So if there actually was a technical defect, it would have been more than likely that all Dementors in the cage would have escaped, not just one. Perhaps they did, perhaps this is the prison management trying to play down a major incident of negligence. For now I’ve got no way of finding out. I decide to let the matter rest till later. There’s something else I need to look into.

I never took a particular interest in Care of Magical Creatures back in Hogwarts, and as far as I remember, fairies never came up in class. The bottom-line being, I don’t know anything about their special characteristics, biology, or history.

Or sexuality.

For starters, I open the Mac-version of Magical Creatures in Alphabetical Order.

Fairies is the first entry under the letter F.

–

When you look through the literature on fairies, you’ll soon come to realize there’s a lot of projection. Fairies are being described as superficial and vain, as spending whole days grooming, and making a fuss when they get their wings removed. It’s being done for beauty potions. Apparently there’s not just the notorious classic, Beautification Potion, but all kinds of products. Like fairy-wing facials. They are advertised as being highly effective, and sell at astronomical prices.

And then there’s Girding Potion. Used by athletes, but mostly by those who need help getting it up.

Yeah, this is why I don’t like potions guys. It’s just what they do, seeing everything as a potential ingredient. Using living things. Chopping them up and grinding the parts so some ugly old hag can change into a chick magnet, or cover his pimples with permanent glitter make-up.

Or have sex seven times in two hours.

Almost every article on fairies and fairy wing potions I come across contains the same sentence, stating the amputation doesn’t kill the fairy. Whether that’s true or not, the fact remains that cutting off any creature’s wings is a mutilation. How can such cruelties be going on on an everyday basis, and I didn’t even know about it. Or cared to know.

I guess I always considered fairies to be animals. But in Magical Creatures in Alphabetical Order, they say that today’s woodland fairies really are descendants of the ancient human-like race of elves and fairy-elves, just diminished in size and intellectual capacity.

There’s only one reference to sex in the article. It says that the fairy-elves of yore were the sexual counterparts of the elves, although both fairy-elves and elves were all male.

That’s exactly the kind of information I was looking for, but it’s all there is. One frigging sentence.

Shit. Looks like I’ll have to face the limits of the internet and ask a flesh-and-blood expert after all.

-

“What exactly did you mean by obscure sexuality.”

“You know,” Hermione replies, sipping at her soy margarine beer.

“I don’t.”

“For one thing, fairies are gay...”

“And that’s obscure.”

“You want to hear me out or not.”

I indicate to her to go on, taking a swig of my own bacon butterbeer. It’s really good, in spite of the strong flavour. Certainly better than that vegan stuff Hermione had me buy her. We are sitting at our usual table in the Flying Pumpkin, although it’s a Tuesday. There’s just the two of us. I called her in the afternoon and invited her to join me for a drink after work. She said she’d be thrilled to see me, and she sounded like she really was. Ron is having his weekly telewizard evening with his pals. They meet up every Tuesday at Ron’s and Hermione’s place to watch the week’s games of the National Quidditch League. It’s always useful to know people’s routines, not only when it comes to terrorist hunting.

“Okay. Fairy sex,” Hermione says. “To get the full picture, we’ll have to go back to the days of Middle Earth, to the ancestors of today’s woodland fairies, the elves and fairy-elves. They were of one and the same race, and they looked like humans. Both male, with the fairy-elves playing the female part in the sexual relationship. Meaning they could be impregnated by the elves.”

“Okay. And how would that work.”

“The original sources about Middle Earth aren’t exactly explicit when it comes to sex. That’s why I used the term obscure in the context. But maginetical research has answered a number of questions in recent years. Namely Portuba Muff has done some excellent work in the field.”

“Portuba Muff? I haven’t come across that name on the internet.”

She smiles condescendingly.

“Not every scientific publication is on the internet, Harry. There’s still a lot of stuff that can only be found in libraries. Okay. Back to Portuba Muff. Her data show that the fairy-elves of Middle Earth were closely related to insects. They had wings and were able to lay eggs. Their respiratory system was probably similar to that of insects, too. In every other respect, fairy-elves shared the physique of the elves and of human males, including the genitalia.”

“What happened, why did the fairy-elves disappear.”

“Over time, the elves started mating with human women. Abandoned by their elven partners, fairy-elves were left to have sex among themselves, which led to genetic degeneration over the centuries. The result are the woodland fairies we know today. As you know, they are no more than half a foot in size, and their minds have developed back to an animal-like state.”

“And the fairy-elves died out.”

Hermione nods.

“The only human-like carriers of fairy genes today would be wizards who are part-fairy. But they are extremely rare. Fairy-elves had been kind of scarce in number compared to elves even in the days of Middle Earth, but women who mate with part-elves today seem to almost never give birth to a part-fairy child. As a rule, their children are part-elf. We don’t have any exact data though. Portuba Muff says the biggest problem for statistics is the effect of infanticide. It shrouds the true numbers.”

“Infanticide?”

“Latin for child killing, Harry. You know a part-fairy witch or wizard would rank among the least respected of the known half-breeds, so it’s only natural for parents to try to get rid of such a child.”

“Natural.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry. All I’m saying is, people who set great store by public opinion won’t want to raise a part-fairy child, and they won’t commit open murder, either, ergo they might be tempted to resort to suffocate a baby who shows early symptoms, then make it look like SIDS or something. It’s not like I’d endorse that kind of thing. It’s obviously barbaric, and incompatible with modern society’s stance on diversity and tolerance. I’m just giving you the facts. Like you asked.”

“Well, thank you, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

She doesn’t ask me why I wanted to know all this. That’s the personal charm of Hermione; to her, simple thirst for knowledge is sufficient reason for wanting to learn about things, even about something as particular as the love life of fairies and their extinct forefathers.

I drink up my beer, then suggest we head to the Apparition lot outside and go home.

I’ve heard enough for today.


	8. Lucius Malfoy

When I come back home and make the door to my flat reappear, I feel like someone about to open a secret chest to check on a treasure he’s keeping hidden from the world. It gives me such a thrill it scares me.

He’s in the kitchen, waiting for me. He has made himself an omelette for dinner judging from the dirty pan and dishes strewn about everywhere. The hexed shirt is gone; he has put on one of the Muggle tank tops I wear to the gym instead. And he has cropped his hair down to the skull. I’m not being graced with an explanation; all I get when I look at him for a second too long is his regular crooked grin. He’s clearly happy to see me.

“I’m afraid I used a couple too many eggs, so there’s some left-overs. I’ve put the bowl in the cold cabinet.”

He’s talking about the fridge, and he used up all the eggs. I meant to use those eggs for my Sunday morning omelette, and it looks like he doesn’t know the first thing about household cleaning routines. But he as good as prepared dinner for me.

I mustn’t like this so much. I mustn’t want to keep him around so much, because staying in my flat is not in his best interest. So, when I’ve reheated the omelette and sat down at the table opposite him, I force myself to say it.

“You thought about what you’ll do?”

“I’ve had some ideas, but... well.”

“Yeah?”

“All of them involve me leaving this flat.”

“And?” I ask, although I know what he means.

“People will see me, that’s what.”

“Draco. Listen. I understand it’s not easy, but you’ll have to come out eventually. You’ll want to have a job. A life. You can’t hide in here forever.”

“You throwing me out?”

He knows I’m not going to do that.

“Think positive. You don’t have to make a big announcement. Just take up a job, and wait what happens. It’s not going to be as bad as you imagine. Why don’t you start by asking for a new date for that interview with the Department of Magical Development.”

He shakes his head, making the lamp light reflect against the surfaces of the kitchen cabinets. Cropped short, his hair has even more lustre than before. I know why he cut it, it’s the only thing fairy about him that he can lose. What he doesn’t seem to realize is that shorn like this, with his hair a shine of satiny white gold highlighting the contours of his head, he’s looking more delicate than ever. More fairy than ever.

He’s just so crazy beautiful.

If only I had the nerve to tell him.

“I’m afraid to even go out during the day,” he says miserably. “I’d rather get locked up in Azkaban than take a stroll down Diagon Alley. How am I supposed to survive that interview? The whole point of it is for me to be judged, and those guys will only have to take one look at my frigging face to know I’m part-fairy!”

“It’s not going to matter,” I say firmly. “They are supposed to not pay any attention to things like race. Modern good employment practice and so on.”

“I can’t face it.”

“You can. And I know you are meant to have a great career. Hell, Draco, it’s what you want, I know it is! You’re a fucking Slytherin, you always wanted to show people what you can do! You’ve always lived to win! You used to chant that song, what was it… About Slytherins who are meant to go to the top…”

I can’t remember that silly chant that used to drive me up the walls, and it doesn’t really matter, obviously.

“Draco. You giving up, that’s probably exactly what your father hoped you’d do when he let you walk away with nothing. Show him he hasn’t defeated you!”

“Sometimes I wish he had,” he says darkly, tracing the invisible scar of the healed slash under his collarbone with his thumb.

“What do you mean?”

“I never wanted to become what I am now,” he says, looking out the black window as if he hadn’t heard me. “I made this giant effort to hold on to my old life. Like if I just kept doing what I’d always done, it wouldn’t happen in the end.” He meets my gaze. “The Change.”

He’s talking about his Change to me. This is big.

“You knew you’d ... transform like you did?” I ask cautiously.

“Not like that. When the wings came out that night...” He shakes his head like someone trying to flee from a nightmare. “But I knew something was going to happen to me, and that it wouldn’t be good. I’ve known something was off with me for years. I’ve always had this freakishly soft hair, you know. Always needed to put tons of product in to hide it. And then later, when everybody grew a fuzz in the face and sprouted hair all over the place, I didn’t. Only I never figured out it was because of fairy genes. Which goes to show just how dumb fairies really are, I guess.”

I never saw the pain hidden under his smirk, but I do now.

“Did your mother never tell you?”

“All she told me was not to contradict people when they called me part-Veela. She never told me what I really was, didn’t dare to, I suppose. I didn’t get those genes from her, you see.”

His sneer is suddenly more pronounced than ever.

“All my father’s talk about pure blood and the Sacred Twenty-eight and how I must never sully our bloodline. I always knew he expected me to disappoint him in some epic way one day. I tried to be the super Slytherin, I tried everything, but he never gave me a single sign he was proud of me. And all the time he knew he had passed those fairy genes on to me. Only he himself is part-elf, and elves are not that different from human males. All that sets him off is his hair colour and his pointy ears.”

I’ve ever only seen Lucius Malfoy wearing his hair in a mane that covers his ears. So there’s a reason for that; he does it to hide their elven tips. Simple.

“But I’m part-fairy,” Draco goes on, his gaze on me intent. “Wizards who are part-fairy are like human males, too, they are. I am. I’m just a bit different, there’s the wings, and... Anyway. My father knew what I was going to be. He couldn’t deal with it. He wanted me to be a normal pureblood. Or at least not part-fairy.”

“What did he do?”

He gets up from his chair to pace the kitchen.

“My shoulders hurt for months this year, long before my birthday. I couldn’t hide it. My father knew what that meant, and he hated it. He hated me. So much so that one night, he had that outburst. He told me what I was, what I was to be. He screamed at me about how he had been jinxing me for years to prevent it. He started the year he went to Azkaban; he had Crabbe do it for him. It was the way to go, obviously, with Crabbe being permanently around me, and being who he was. After the Battle of Hogwarts, my father took over himself. It served his ends that my mother fell sick when I was in College; I went home every weekend to see her. When she died, he made me come home for good, claiming he needed my help with the estate. And I was so dumb to believe that, to actually be happy he wanted my help, and my company.”

The oversized tank top has kept slipping off his shoulders as he has been striding back and forth. When he takes it off and hurls it over the back of a chair now it is with the impatient vigour of a tormented soul.

“I had trouble dealing with my mother’s death,” he continues. “I wasn’t in a good place, and that probably got in the way of my judgement. Anyway, I took my exams early and moved home. And now he was standing there, saying he had only wanted me close so he could go on throwing curses at me to keep me from Changing. From sullying the Malfoy name.”

He has stopped by the door to turn the light switch on and off, eventually leaving the lights off.

“You understand, Harry? He jinxed me ever since that sixth year. Tried every curse he could think of to make me be normal. When he told me all that, I finally understood why I had been feeling sick for so long. I had become kind of used to the permanent headaches and nausea, but when I realized that it had actually been my father who had done that to me, well...”

“You left,” I say in a low voice.

“Yeah. I had seen Jenkins’ advertisement in the Daily Prophet, and I decided to send that application, then moved to London. I wanted to try a new start, but I was completely off the rails. I meant to turn my life around, but at the same time, I tried to cling to my old gang, my Slytherin pals. I tried to go on being Malfoy. You saw me in the Flying Pumpkin.”

“A week before your birthday.”

“Yeah, at least I had the sense to celebrate the real thing alone. When the wings broke from my body that night, that was... Yeah, it hurt like hell, and it freaked me out so much I went back home. I was so stupid. I don’t know what I expected my father to do. Tell me he loves me just the way I am, I guess.” He scoffs mirthlessly. “I actually showed him the wings, can you believe that? First he simply tried to rip them off me. That didn’t work, though. I could have told him that much, I had tried it myself. These wings might not look like much, but they’re pretty robust.”

He’s unfolding his wings, creating a glow in the dark kitchen, and with a twisted laugh, he gives the delicate curve above his left shoulder a cruel pull.

“Stop doing that!” I cry, startled by my own violent reaction.

“They won’t come off, I told you,” he says, but he lets go of the wing and resumes his pacing, casting light into the shadows with every step he takes.

“What happened then,” I ask. He shrugs, making the wings dance.

“When he got that he was making a fool of himself he hit me with a beating spell till I was out on the floor, then tried to get the wings off me with Sectumsempra. I came to when I got the first slash. He didn’t aim that well, he just hit me in the chest. I could hold him off for a while after that. I don’t know how, really, he had taken my mother’s wand from me. He went so mad when he couldn’t get the curse to work on me his focus slipped. Anyway, somehow I got him in a headlock and wrestled his wand from his hand. He’s not as fit as he used to be, the old man. Yeah, I stunned him with his own wand, then packed up and left. That’s all the story.”

I don’t think it is.

“You’re still feeling sick, aren’t you, Draco.”

He shrugs again.

“It’s going to get better. I guess it’s going to take a while for daddy’s curses to wear off. Curses that aim at warping nature are dark magic, and dark magic has this tendency to leave lasting effects, hasn’t it.”

Much like having your father call you things like misfit or monstrosity. He doesn’t have to tell me for me to know it’s what his father did. Trying not to think about the heinousness of the whole tale, I sit in silence.

He sits down on his chair opposite me again. I can’t make out his expression with the lights off. Somehow I can’t muster the energy to pick up my wand and switch them back on. And his wings shimmer so cheerfully in the dark.

“I know what you think,” he says after a while.

“I don’t think you do.”

“You think how it’s just so ironic that arrogant Malfoy turned out to be a half-breed himself, and the lowest of the lowest, too. A witless, useless fairy.”

“That’s not what you are.”

“Okay,” he says. “Maybe not wholly useless. I guess I could still be a Christmas ornament.”

“Professor Jenkins wanted you for the Potions Section.”

“How would you know.”

“I was on your panel, and he said it when we were waiting for you to show up for your interview.”

“Oh man, you must have been so mad at me,” he says with a laugh. I won’t have him divert me.

“He’d still want you.”

He scoffs and gets up again.

“Yeah, for my wings he would. I guess I could sell them to him at two-hundred-and-fifty Galleons each. Perhaps that’s what I should do.”

“You aren’t being serious.”

“What, you think I’m not even worth five-hundred Galleons?” He reaches back for his left wing again and roughly crumples up a handful of the shiny tissue in his fist. “You need to catch hundreds of woodland fairies to get that amount of material, he might even give me a thousand!”

I can’t bear to listen to him talking like that. Getting up from my seat, too, I step into his space and pry his fingers from his wing.

“Listen to me, Draco. You passed your college exams with special honours even though you took them early. You have five NEWTs marked outstanding. You’ve always been brilliant, and not just in Potions!”

“Have been.”

“You haven’t lost that!”

He looks at me, ninety-nine percent black desperation in his big-eyed gaze and one dust-speck of hope.

“You set up a Protean Charm,” I say, hoarse with an emotion I cannot name. “You know there’s very few people who can do that. I know I can’t.”

We stand looking at each other for a couple more heartbeats, and something flickers in his eyes. I’d swear it’s stars. Then he says, so softly I can hardly hear it, “That’s because you’ve always sucked at Charms.”

“I thought I always sucked at Potions.”

“Let’s agree you just sucked.”

I shake my head and chuckle in spite of myself, and he grins at me, broadly, like never before.

I was right.

That’s stars in his eyes.

-

He got a new date for his job interview. Jenkins hadn’t filled the vacancy yet and set up an interview date the day he got the owl post with Draco’s reapplication. I’ve offered Draco my help with the interview. After all, I am Harry Potter. I am the guy who made the Dark Lord go down. It doesn’t mean I get my every wish granted, but I can make someone get an internship with the Ministry if I want to. But Draco has declined. He said he’d appreciate it if I told people about him, perhaps warned them in advance of his changed appearance if I felt it might make things easier for him, but he wouldn’t want me to use my position to directly help him get the job. What he said was he felt there was the potential for future complications, like discussions about a conflict of interest. He didn’t specify, but I liked his drift. The only thing he could have meant by that was that people might think we were involved. It’s almost like he said we were involved. Or so I like to tell myself. Anyway, I’ve given my place on the interview panel to Luna Lovegood, who has never yet said no to any job candidate.

And I’ve decided to talk to Susan Bones.

“He didn’t show the first time around, and you didn’t like it any better than I did, Harry. And now you’re telling me you want him to have a second chance? You’re aware it’s exactly what he’s used to, being a Malfoy. Special treatment.”

“He had a reason for staying away, he was sick.”

“He could have called.”

“You don’t understand.”

“In fact, I don’t. I’m certainly supporting resocialization, even if the candidate in question is a former Death Eater, but...”

“Draco Malfoy isn’t a Death Eater, he never was. He isn’t wearing the Dark Mark.”

“But... Are you sure about that?”

“I am, but his criminal record is not the point here.”

“What is the point here, then.”

He has authorized me to out him to individual people whenever I think it’ll be helpful. If ever it’ll be helpful, it’s now.

“Okay, here’s the thing, Susan. Draco Malfoy is part-fairy. Maybe you’ve heard some rumours. Well, they are true, and that means he belongs to a group grossly underrepresented in Ministry staff. As far as I know, he’s the only wizard with distinguishable fairy characteristics who ever even tried to get a job with the Ministry. As an Equal Opportunities Officer, you are expected to support his application.”

Susan stares at me like she has never seen me before. I can tell she has trouble following. She’s looking more Hufflepuff than ever.

“Draco Malfoy is...”

“Yeah, he is. Draco Malfoy is part-fairy, and he’s got the perfect credentials to be an intern with the Potions Section. Professor Jenkins’ very words, if I recall them correctly.”

“Part-fairy! But Fairies are...”

She doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Fairies are what?” I ask. “Intellectually less able? Or is it his sexuality that’s bothering you?”

Susan Bones might be a Hufflepuff, but she’s clever enough to know when she’s defeated.

-

I knew he’d get the job, and he did. He’s now an intern with the Potions Section of the Department of Magical Development. Meaning he’s the lowest ranking employee in the Ministry. But it’s a start. And it’s his field. He loves working with potions, and he’s good at it. Really good. He’s going to show them. He is going to rise. I know he is.

After all, he’s still a Slytherin, and everyone knows Slytherins don’t stop until they’ve gone to the top.

Yeah, it came back to me, that chant. Used to drive me up the walls.


	9. Marcus Flint

After two weeks, we have established a routine. I hit the bathroom at six, an hour earlier than I used to, so I can squeeze in my ten-minute shave-and-shower ritual before Draco shuts me out to do whatever it is he does in there between six ten and seven. After breakfast, I drive us to work in my Mini. Yeah, I’ve got a driving licence and my own car. People have called me Muggle-lover for it, but cars really are a great way to get around. They easily beat Floo powder and Apparating and Portkeys. I mean, who wants to be jostled about and get dizzy and feel sick all the time? It’s just kids who think that’s fun.

Initially, Draco claimed the Mini wasn’t cool and kept clawing at the seat at every turn of the street, but on the third day he started looking out the passenger window and enjoying watching London’s scenic views fly by. And on the fifth he started criticizing my driving and talking about how he’d get his own licence one of these days and how we’d see then who could go faster. When I observed that driving was about individual mobility, not a competition sport, he just smirked. –

Anyway, once we’ve dropped the car in the parking garage, by some silent understanding, we part for the day. No need to fuel gossip by entering the crowded lobby of the Ministry together. It’s ridiculously hard to tell him good bye. I’ve always loved my job, but now I kind of plough through my workday, be it at the office or somewhere out in the field, and part of me is just waiting for the moment I’m going to see him again. 

Every night at ten p.m., we meet up again by the fountain in the lobby to go home. There’s hardly anybody around anymore that late, so there’s not much harm in leaving together. Also, I wouldn’t want him to walk over to the garage by himself at this hour, maybe linger down there, waiting for me. The garage is located within the two-mile non-Apparition radius they created around the Ministry complex a while ago, so he wouldn’t be able to simply disapparate in case of trouble. Not that there’s ever been any trouble, but I just can’t get rid of this sense of danger where he is concerned. 

Most nights we drop by my pizza place for take-out on the way home. He loves pizza. The other day he said it was two things that had reformed his view of the world lately; turning into a half-breed, and discovering that Muggles invented something as epic as pizza. I’d love to cook dinner with him, show him some more Muggle recipes, have him lecture me on how to stir a cauldron, but I fear it would come across as too couply to suggest it. We get home too late to start any serious cooking anyway.

It’s him who’s got these crazy working hours. Apparently Jenkins uses tons of dishes for his experimenting, and as the only intern, Draco is supposed to wash and dry and put away every last pot and pan before he goes home.

And he is supposed to come in the weekends, too; he’s working on Saturdays and Sundays like on every other day of the week. I’m doing the same now. I’ve been telling him there’s a lot going on at the Auror Department at the time, but the truth is, I want to be in the same building with him. I know it’s pathetic.

When he steps from the lift into the brightly lit lobby this Saturday night, it’s deserted. There’s nobody around but the receptionist in the second booth. He’s giving Draco a wave, a smile, and a completely gratuitous once-over.

“Good night, Reuben,” Draco calls out, then walks over to where I’m waiting for him by the fountain. I should be happy for him that he has settled in like he has. From what he has told me, everybody is being perfectly nice to him. And that’s great, obviously. It is. Only there’s no need for people like this Reuben guy to actually wave at Draco from a hundred yards away. I get why he would do that, though; in my black leather jacket, Draco looks like a Muggle movie star. He ditched his cloak the third day he went to work with me and has been borrowing my jacket since, claiming he wanted to embrace what I had told him about the merging of the cultures. That’s bullshit of course; he just wants to look like that movie star. He even used a shrinking spell on the jacket so it fits him better.

When he reaches me I forget about being annoyed because of losing my jacket, and Reuben’s inappropriate attempts at flirting. Draco’s face is drawn with fatigue. He shouldn’t be working so hard, he really shouldn’t. He is looking much better than he did; the residues of his father’s curses are definitely on the decline. It’s still important for him not to overdo it, and to get enough sleep. I always feel best when he goes to bed early. Therefore I’m not happy when I learn he’s not going to do that tonight. On the ride home he tells me he’s going to meet Marcus Flint for a game of wizard billiard and a butterbeer later this night. No, not happy at all.

“Marcus Flint?” I say. “But he’s...”

“I know you used to say he was part-troll. And he certainly is a little bit on the rough side. They say he had to pay thousands of Galleons of fines for battery, and I can see how that happened. But he didn’t drop me after I Changed. He was the only one.”

“You met Marcus Flint after the Change? You told him about yourself?”

“I guess he heard what had become of me. People must have seen me in Knockturn Alley, and people talk. And Marcus still contacted me. He came to see me in Knockturn Alley and invited me to sleep at his place.”

“You’ve been living with Marcus Flint?”

“I haven’t. There was this stink in his flat, and I just couldn’t take it. It wasn’t that cold outside yet, so I continued sleeping in shop entrances and the like. But Marcus still kept in contact. No one else made an attempt to reach out to me, let alone suggest hanging out. Not a single one of all the birthday guests you saw in the Flying Pumpkin. And here poor Draco had been thinking he had all these great friends.” He bats his lashes in a pantomime of naivety, mocking himself. “Yeah, I was having a bit of a hard time. You see, I didn’t get to meet anyone but my tricks during those weeks, and when I was out with Marcus, playing billiard and having beer like a regular person, that sort of made me feel I was still human.”

I nod, shaken.

“Yeah,” he says. “He doesn’t appear to be the most sensitive of guys, but he was really understanding about my situation. He suggested we go to bars where we could be sure nobody would know us, and he even provided me with Polyjuice Potion every time we went out so I could relax about my face or people recognizing me. And then I think you might actually be right about the troll thing. He uses deodorant spray like every ten minutes because he thinks he smells. If he is a half-breed, too, and struggling with it, I should show some support in return, don’t you think?”

I’m not one hundred percent happy with this reasoning.

“I think you shouldn’t go on seeing him if you don’t really like him. You don’t really like him, do you?”

Please say you don’t like him. There’s a long pause.

“It wouldn’t feel right to dump him now that I don’t need a billiard buddy anymore because I... because I got you.”

It’s too dark in the car to see much, but I can tell he’s blushing. Without thinking, I pull him into half an embrace across the hand brake.

“Just don’t go anywhere shady. And don’t stay out too long. You still need rest, okay?”

“Okay, Mom,” he says in the darkness, and this time, I can tell he’s sneering.

-

As soon as Draco has Disapparated from my flat, I get my Y-pad, log in to my Mac account and do a background check on Marcus Flint.

It seems he agreed to meet Draco at the Flying Pumpkin tonight, and Draco did say all these nice things about him, but I don’t trust Flint. Not one bit. That’s why I sewed that shield amulet into the lining of my leather jacket while Draco was in the bathroom getting ready for his night out.

Flint has served almost a year for injury to property, assault, and battery. He never paid any damages. It seems he’s heavily indebted. Since he left Hogwarts, he has been doing odd jobs in various places. Mostly security and maintenance, ironically. He has been working for Quidditch clubs and bars, and he even was on the payroll of Azkaban for a couple of weeks as a janitor. A former inmate repairing damaged locks on prison doors. I’d think it funny, if I weren’t so strung up.

Marcus Flint is exactly what I feared he’d be. A criminal with nothing to lose. And he’s with Draco right now, and I can’t do anything about it, like drag Draco back home and ground him, because sadly I’m not really his mom.

I go pick up Draco’s briefcase where he dropped it to the floor in the hallway, then clean the bathroom to calm my nerves. Before Draco, I used to do the bathroom on Sundays, but he’s the type to tip over shampoo bottles on the window sill without seeming to notice and stuff like that every time he goes take a shower, so cleaning schedules don’t make much sense anymore.

I stay awake till two in the morning when I hear the faint plop in Draco’s room telling me he’s home.


	10. A sickness

The next morning he doesn’t appear for breakfast. Eventually, I knock at his door, then go in to check on him. His brow is hot with fever and he’s suffering from a heavy shortness of breath. There’s a weird sweetish smell in the room. I try to talk to him, but he’s too weak to speak. It seems he’s been up being sick the whole night. When he tries to get up from his bed, he nearly passes out.

A Fortifying Spell and a few shots of anti-fever potion later, he’s fit to sit up and argue again. He’s trying to convince me he can go to work. Yeah, he still doesn’t really know me. When I’ve put him back to bed, using a mild restraining curse that’ll last the day, I ask him if he has had episodes like this before; if this is the kind of nausea induced by his father’s curses he has been telling me about. He shakes his head. But apparently he has had trouble like this already a couple of times, ever since his Change in June.

“Maybe I did catch some germ in the streets after all. There isn’t just STDs around in Knockturn Alley, there’s other stuff, too,” he says. It might be true, but somehow it doesn’t seem probable. He had gotten so much better these last weeks compared to when I picked him up in Knockturn Alley.

“Did anyone use their wands on you last night?”

Again, he shakes his head.

“They’ve established this new policy at the Flying Pumpkin. Security collects people’s wands at the entrance now. They claim too many of the patrons have been disregarding the ban on magic.”

“What about outside in the Apparition lot?”

“No illegal activity anywhere the whole night, Auror Potter,” he replies. “Unless you count someone trying to smuggle a magical object onto my person.”

“Who did that. Tell me! Who!”

With a smirk, he gestures at the leather jacket that’s lying on the floor, turned inside out. The amulet is gleaming through the satin lining where I sewed it in. I pick up the jacket and pull out the amulet to check it. The intricately patterned metal surface doesn’t have a scratch.

“You didn’t take the jacket off while you were inside the Flying Pumpkin, did you,” I say.

“I didn’t, but next time you decide to put jewellery on me, give me a heads-up. No more tricks, Potter. And now let me go to work.”

“No way.”

He can’t disobey me, thanks to the restraining curse; the most recent trick I employed on him. Thankfully he’s unaware of that, so he doesn’t complain. But he won’t stop fretting about how he’s letting his boss down.

Apparently Jenkins has been working on a special potion of outstanding potential relevance for three decades. And right at the moment there are all kinds of test runs to be done because he decided to add a special breed of wolfs bane to the formula that’s super poisonous if you don’t get the timing and temperatures during the cooking process exactly right.

Or something like that.

I’ve always had trouble understanding potions, and Draco is still feverish and not one-hundred percent coherent.

I promise him to go down to the Ministry to excuse him and reassure him that if the potion in question has been a work in progress for thirty years, a couple more days won’t do any harm. Then I hex him with Canto Dormantis, and he falls asleep.

-

When I get to the Ministry, I Apparate straight down to the Potions Section. It’s just the Aurors who have a special, magically controlled Apparition licence for inside the Ministry, and it’s actually one of the best perks that come with the job.

In the main lab, there’s just Kendricks, shirtless. He’s stirring a giant steaming copper pot under the fume hood and checking something on his Y-pad at the same time. When I step up behind him, he flinches so he nearly drops the Y-pad into the pot. Angling the screen away from me, he tells me Jenkins is in his private lab right off his office, then asks what’s up with Draco. He knows we are flatmates; Draco told him. I say Draco caught some kind of bug and won’t be coming to work for a while. Kendricks looks disproportionately frustrated at that. It’s evident he wants Draco around. He’s just so gay, and really muscly, too, and I can feel myself turning green with jealousy.

“The old bird won’t be happy,” Kendricks says, oblivious to the fact I’m boiling inside just as much as his cauldron. “He’s this total slaveholder, Jenkins. Wants everyone in all the bloody time, even on a bloody Sunday. Treating everyone like they’re house elves, Jenkins.”

Well, he doesn’t want to treat Draco like that, and it’s time someone told him. In an instant, I’ve Apparated over to Jenkin’s private lab. It’s not the polite thing to do, but I’m not in the mood for polite.

I’m in a darkish room with a workbench in the middle and a big stove with a fume hood in one corner. Across the room, Jenkins is standing by an open cabinet. For a second I think it’s filled with rows and rows of small lamps, then I see it’s actually tiny glass bottles containing something like liquid light. Jenkins stares at me. His eye-brows have grown back, and his nose has healed, too. It looks like it never got burnt. It takes Jenkins two seconds to recover from the shock of seeing me. Then he hastily shuts the cabinet’s door and turns the key in the lock. The cabinet vanishes into thin air. Pocketing the key in his robe, he says, “Mr. Potter.”

Way too levelly. I’ve been an Auror long enough to know when something’s off. I’ve just barged into his private laboratory without any invitation or warning, and he should be pissed at me. He is, I can tell, in spite of his pleasant voice. Why would he try to gloss over it?

What’s with that invisible cabinet, and those lamp bottles?

When I tell him about Draco, he irritably taps at his long nose with his wand.

“He’s not coming in today? That’s too bad. He knows I need those results.”

“He’s not coming in, and he will stay home till he’s better, and he won’t be working on Sundays in the future.” I step up to Jenkins, invading his space. “You’ve got no right to make him work like you do, Jenkins. He’s got a condition, chronic heart problems. He got hit with a dark curse as a teenager. As his superior you should be aware of that, it’s in his medical file. And he’s got a contract that guarantees regular working hours. You don’t want the works council coming down here and checking you aren’t breaking any rules, do you.”

I got to him. I can read the worry in his watery eyes. With a curt nod, I Apparate up to the ground floor to go home. Yeah, I’ve been an Auror long enough to know when I’m done.

-

When I get home, Draco is worse. He’s got trouble breathing and his temperature is well over one-hundred-and-ten. It frightens me to the bone and makes me try every healing spell I ever heard of. Nothing helps. I get him some water and tell him we need to go to St. Mungo’s, but at the mention of doctors he gets so agitated he starts choking. Only when I relent and say I won't force him, he somewhat calms down again. 

He has put on one of my tank tops again, and I can see the upper curves of his wings. The delicate tissue seems to have lost all its lustre. He doesn’t protest when I ask him to let me check out his wings. When I’ve removed the top and carefully spread them, they are dry and brittle under my touch. It means he needs more water, but by now he’s too weak and disoriented to drink from a glass. I’ve got to drip the water into his mouth using my wand as a nursing bottle. 

Another twenty minutes later, I notice his breathing has slowed down. His chest doesn’t rise and fall more often than a couple of times per minute now. That can’t be good. It’s no use, I’ll have to take him to the hospital after all, even though he’s going to hate me for it. I’m already preparing to take him into a restraining hold and Apparate us to St. Mungo’s emergency unit when I remember Anapneo. It’s being used in cases of choking and breathing arrest. Hoping I’m doing it right, I tap at his chest and cast the spell. 

The next two minutes I spend pointlessly dabbing a tissue at his sweaty face and chest, waiting. Then the effect kicks in. His brow and cheeks are still hot and reddened, but his eyes clear up, and his wings seem to recover, too. Ten more minutes, and he looks almost normal again. I put my palms to his wings to check. Yes. They are back to their slightly rubbery feel; they are all elastic, vibrating satin again. It feels so good I can’t take my hands away.

He pulls his wings to his body and skids away from me. It’s his first conscious act since I got home.

“You don’t want to touch those, they’re disgusting,” he croaks.

“Draco...”

“I’m this aberration. This mons... monstrosity.”

There’s a feverish urgency to the stuttered words.

“You’re not. You’re an angel,” I say, my voice breaking, and then I simply pull him onto my lap and go on stroking the slick, veined wings.

“You realize I can’t fly, not without a broom,” he replies, a highly-strung chuckle ringing in his voice. He’s trying to be ironic, his usual technique when he’s trying to stay in control, but his wings tremble under my touch, giving away how much the caress is affecting him.

“You aren’t the most angelic of flatmates, either,” I say, glossing over the physical intimacy of the moment for both our sakes. We go on sitting together like that, and I lose any sense of time. Finally his lids come down over his eyes. I gently put him down onto the mattress, then sit back to listen to his breathing, taking pleasure in the quiet, rhythmic sound. A couple of times he changes position. I never stop stroking his wings.

“But you’re beyond beautiful,” I say the moment I’m sure he has fallen asleep. “You know you are.”

His wings shift under my palm and he opens his eyes again and looks at me. He heard me. I hold his gaze.

“Tell me you know it, Draco.”

He gives a feeble laugh.

“What I do know is those people who said you were nuts back in our fifth year at Hogwarts were obviously right, Potter,” he says.

But it’s not with his usual smirk, but with the sweetest of shy smiles.


	11. Telewizard

Eventually, he gets better. He’s out of bed, but still too weak to go to work. So he lounges on the couch in the living room reading his fat lab protocols during the day, and watching talent shows on telewizard each and every night. Using my wand to change the channel.

I told him not to use my wand. It’s been quite tricky to handle since I mended it, and I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong, like spells backfiring on him or something. I explained that, and he said okay, Potter.

He has been using my wand interchangeably with his own since.

I also told him I hated telewizard shows, and he could do anything in my flat, just not conjure one of those programmes while I was home. When he did just that tonight, yet again, I reminded him this was my flat and I wasn’t watching shows on telewizard. Especially not crap like Waltzing Wizards. I took my wand from him, killed the telewizard waves, and tucked my wand under my belt. He told me I was rather elitist for a half-blood. And when I didn’t tell him I was a pure-blood, or Stunned him, as he seemed to be expecting me to, he leapt up from the couch, snatched my wand from my groin, leaving me half Stunned myself, and turned the programme right back on.

Now I’m trying to read the Daily Prophet while he delivers a running commentary on the show he’s watching. He has switched from that dancing show to a singing contest. Apparently he considers that a compromise.

He’s mocking every single witch or wizard the moment they appear in my living room to perform their song.

“That’s Zacharias Smith. You remember him? Hufflepuff chaser. Used to be in your army thing. Now he thinks he wants to be a boy band front man. With that face. And that voice? If you ask me, a Screaming Yo-yo sounds like phoenix song compared to old Zac...”

He’s still Draco Malfoy, his smirk lending his lovely features an all too familiar mean edge. I shake my head at him.

“You haven’t changed at all, you know, not in essence. It’s one of the things you always liked best, pointing out people’s weaknesses.”

His expression changes instantly, he’s throwing me a wide-eyed, unhappy glance. Fidgeting in his seat, he flicks my wand. Zacharias Smith dissolves, his dissonant singing following suit. It’s a funny thing, Draco seems to be able to work the remote charm for my flat’s telewizard receiver better than I can, even though he’s using my wand. I watch him bite his lip and look down into his lap with his lids fluttering.

This is wrong. I don’t want him to look like that. Shit, I want him to go back to being bad, sneering, self-satisfied Draco. I want to hear what he’s got to say about the next contestant at MissionSinginMagician.

It seems I have a thing for his bitchy verdicts about people. Yeah, perhaps they’re unnecessarily harsh, but they’re also pretty entertaining. I’ve never known anyone whose slander is more to the point. And for good or for worse, it is part of who he is.

I pick up my wand and switch MissionSinginMagician back on.

-

After a week, he has fully recovered. Anapneo turned things around. Everything seems to be okay. He’s back to his default mode, bouncy and never tiring of piquing me and trying to ruffle my pride, and he’s excited to be getting back to work. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about the strangeness of his sickness, so I don’t make him. But I’m still worried. It’s a kind of worry I’ve never known, eating away at me, haunting my sleep. Without Anapneo, he would have died, I’m sure of it. No way was that just some bug.

I have to get to the bottom of this.


	12. Lin G. Row

Normally I ask Hermione about stuff I need to know.

He told me he has had bouts of illness for years because of his father cursing him. Even if he claims the times he fell sick since his Change were somewhat different, it could be that he’s still afflicted by residual effects of the curses his father cast on him. And that that is why he came down with that weird, sudden disease after going out with Marcus Flint.

Or he fell sick because someone did get past that amulet shield after all and for some reason cast a dark spell over him. Marcus Flint, for example.

But it could also be that he suffered like he did because of me.

He nearly suffocated before I thought of Anapneo. I can’t stop thinking he had to live through that agony because I hit him with Sectumsempra and damaged his heart all those years ago. If that is true, he won’t recover by himself. If that is true, I’ve got to find a remedy for Sectumsempra.

Only I’ve never heard of one.

Yeah, normally I would discuss this with Hermione. But I’m not ready to tell her about Draco.

If I can’t ask Hermione for advice, there’s only one other option.

During a lull at work in the office, I pick up my wand and use Video Phono to call Lin.

Lin G. Row.

I don’t know what she is exactly. She looks like a Muggle woman, but she might be carrying non-human genes. I don’t know her exact job description, either. Just that she’s definitely above the Minister of Magic.

She doesn’t like to talk much about herself. As an Auror, I’m trained at reading people. It’s a key skill when it comes to interrogating suspects, or profiling. I haven’t had much success trying to read Lin.

She’s slim, blond. Attractive. I guess. It’s hard to tell for a guy like me. It’s hard to tell her age, too. I’d say she’s not above using the occasional trick when it comes to age-concealment. And she seems to know absolutely everything. More than Hermione, actually. I don’t know how that’s even possible. Knowing more than Hermione, that’s close to being god-like.

It seems Lin observed me very closely during my time in Hogwarts, and without me ever being aware of it. I’ve heard it said she documented everything that happened, up until the Battle of Hogwarts and the downfall of Voldemort.

When I first realized how much she knew about my Hogwarts years, I suspected her of being an animagus, some little insect that hides in your hair, like Rita Skeeter. But I have come to think it really had to do with my glasses. After I had finished school, I got rid of them, had my eye-sight fixed by a healer. It only took a simple spell, I should have had that done a lot sooner. Glasses are a hazard when you duel. Or when you try to pick someone up in a bar.

When I first met Lin after I had started to work for the Ministry, she said she had liked me better with my glasses. I got the impression there was a reason for that, not just the fact she likes geeks better than the cool guys. Yeah, I’ve come to think she hexed my glasses shortly before I started out at Hogwarts so she could see everything that happened to me from my perspective. I mean, everybody in the wizarding world knew I was the Chosen One when I was a kid. It wouldn’t have been that hard for anyone to get their hands on my glasses when Aunt Petunia got them for me from the drugstore, not hard at all. All they had to do was pose as a sales clerk and hex them before putting them in their paper bag. And then boot up some magical screen at home and watch my life unfold.

Yeah, I’ve come to think that’s exactly what Lin did.

It is a bit creepy, but I don’t mind that much. I guess my life as a school kid was of a certain general interest, considering. When I once asked her straight on if I was right about the whole glasses thing, she said that if she hadn’t done what she did, the wizarding world wouldn’t be the world we know today. Maybe that’s even true. The main point is, she doesn’t seem to be monitoring me anymore. And she’s always trying to come up with a solution when I have a problem. On quite a number of occasions in the past, she has given me a magical object or told me about a hex I had never heard of before that saved the day.

This time, though, she just shakes her head.

“You can rule out that he got cursed when he was out with Flint if that amulet is undamaged. Curses that break through an amulet shield always destroy the amulet.”

“So you think his sickness got triggered by a dark curse that hit him at some point in the past?”

“Indeed I do. I think it’s the Sectumsempra curse you cast on him. Sorry, Harry. Nothing you can do about that now.”

“But...”

“Sectumsempra is dark magic, and there’s no known remedy. There’s just the healing spell, Vulnera Sanentur, that can be used to stop the bleeding and heal the wounds. But lost body parts can never be reattached, or grown back. A heart that lost muscle tissue to Sectumsempra will stay damaged. Obviously that means trouble with breathing for life. You know dark magic has permanent effects like that. You learnt that when George Weasley lost his ear, didn’t you.”

“But Lin. Can’t you do anything for me? For Draco?”

“Sorry, Harry. There are limits to what’s possible even in magic, you know that. Even I can’t abolish established facts.”

I know that’s true, but I’m still left with the feeling that she isn’t trying that hard to help me.

“But isn’t it still possible that someone will develop a remedy for Sectumsempra one day? Some specially gifted wizard?”

She shrugs.

“That would have to be a true whiz of a wizard,” she says, delighted with her word play. Then she ends the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, J.K. Rowling is one of the greatest writers of our time, and her genius is unique. I may have taken the liberty to assign a cameo to her, but please note that I don't claim to personally know her, and that no offence or disrespect is intended!


	13. Ron and Hermione

I need to ask Hermione, after all. I can do it without mentioning Draco. Or the fact that he’s sleeping in my second bedroom, and that I’m dreaming of going over and fucking him senseless every single night. Sure I’m going to tell her and Ron he’s living with me one of these days. But there’s no need to push it. I can just ask her some general questions.

So the next Friday night at the Flying Pumpkin, I casually bring up the subject of lasting effects of dark magic. I say that lately I’ve been wondering if getting hit by a dark curse can lead to episodes of acute fever, nausea and breathing problems years later. Say if someone’s heart got hit by Sectumsempra. And if they’ve ever heard of any remedy.

Hermione comfortably settles back in her chair.

“Okay, dark curses. They do have lasting effects, and Sectumsempra is a typical example. George’s ear never grew back after it got cut off. But he doesn’t complain about any problems, apart from having to hex his reading glasses to his nose. As far as I know, the symptoms you’ve mentioned have never been reported after an incident of Sectumsempra, at least not in case Vulnera Sanentur has been successfully applied. Do you remember when you hit Malfoy with Sectumsempra back at Hogwarts? He completely recovered...”

“He lost a piece of his heart when I did that. Snape healed his wounds, but Draco never made a full recovery. He hasn’t been able to play Quidditch since then. And he’s been suffering from weird bouts of sickness for years, especially recently, and I really need to know if that might be connected to the damage to his heart.”

I’ve blurted all of that out on one single breath.

Ron and Hermione stare at me.

“Are we talking about Malfoy here?” Hermione asks. I shrug, hoping against hope there’s still a chance I can stall this.

“How would you know all that about Draco Malfoy’s health problems,” she presses on.

“Yeah, how would you know all that,” Ron echoes. So I do it, I tell them how I saved him from the Dementor, and that he’s currently living with me. When they keep staring at me like I had told them it was Voldemort who was sleeping in my spare bed, my uneasiness gives way to exasperation. I tell them to stop the gaping and that they must have heard at least some rumours about Draco and me, from Reuben from the lobby or someone.

If they have, it didn’t pave the way, not one bit.

They can’t get over it.

“But he’s Malfoy,” Hermione keeps saying.

“He’s a Slytherin!” Ron shouts.

“He’s Malfoy, Harry,” Hermione repeats yet again, like she’s got to get a point across to an especially dim-witted student.

“He’s a Death Eater!”

That’s Ron again, still shouting. And now I’m shouting back, crashing my mug down onto the table.

“He’s not, and I know he’s Malfoy, and I don’t fucking care he’s a Slytherin, so shut the fuck up!”

Hermione opens her mouth, then closes it again, flustered into silence by my outburst.

“He’s a potions whiz,” Ron says, then he pushes his chair back in a laughable attempt to put some safety distance between us.

I close my eyes and count to seven.

“You’re dating a potions guy,” Ron says. I never knew he had suicidal tendencies, but obviously he has.

“I’m not dating him.”

“You hate potions guys!”

I’ve got to shut up Ron, or I’ll burst like a card at Exploding Snap. And Draco did give me permission to tell people about him.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You want to know what he actually is? A half-breed.”

“Oh no,” Hermione exclaims. “Oh no, so he really is Veela!” She leans forward, her face scrunched up with concern. “Harry, listen, dear. Try to be reasonable. I know that must be hard for you right now, but still. You’ve got to realize he’s playing with you. You know it’s what Veela do...”

“He isn’t Veela. He’s part-fairy.”

There’s three full seconds of silence.

“Part-fairy? Malfoy?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that rumour, too.”

“I have, but... Really? Part-fairy? But fairies are...”

“Vapid? Dumb? Gay?” I spit out.

“Calm down, Harry,” she retorts. “Now, fairies.” She clears her throat. I should have known she’d tackle this with her standard reaction; a lecture. “It’s only today’s woodland fairies who are generally assumed to be intellectually challenged. The fairy-elves of Middle Earth who would be the ancestors of today’s part-fairy wizards were the same level of intelligent as the average human, or slightly above. But they were also the essence of sweet-natured. It’s what Portuba Muff says in the History of Magical Beings.”

“So?”

“The essence of sweet-natured? Malfoy can’t be part-fairy.”

“Well, he is. His father was part-elf, and he’s part-fairy.”

“I don’t care if he’s fairy or Veela or everything combined,” Ron cuts in. “He’s Malfoy, and if you want to live with him, or whatever, go ahead and do it. Just don’t expect me to come visit!”

“Why would I want you to come visit! You smash people’s places, you troll!”

Ron has risen from his chair, his fists balled.

“At least I don’t look like one! It’s you who does, with all that pretentious muscle you’ve piled up! But then I guess Malfoy is totally digging that!”

Before I can think of an answer, or rip his head off, Hermione has grabbed Ron by the arm and steers him out of the pub. Only when they’re gone I remember why I brought the whole thing up in the first place. I still don’t know if it’s me who’s responsible that Draco fell sick. Or his father’s old curses. Or if someone managed to break through that amulet shield.

I drink up my bacon butterbeer, feeling helpless and lonely.


	14. Family

We are having breakfast in the kitchen. I’m having my ham and eggs, he’s eating honey from the jar, having abandoned his toast after just two or three bites.

I told him I asked around about Sectumsempra. It didn’t feel right to keep it from him that I have been talking about him with other people.

“Stop obsessing about those old school stories. I’m not sick, okay? Who did you talk to, anyway.”

“Lin Row. And Hermione.”

At the mention of Lin, he just raises an eyebrow. But Hermione’s name makes him put his spoon down.

“Hermione. The girl with the left hook who’s also a walking encyclopaedia. Does she still talk like she swallowed a book for breakfast? She must have hexed Weasley. He isn’t the type to go for clever girls with no tits. He’s the type that goes for bimbos. Yeah, I’d suspect her to be part-Veela, with the way she managed to tie him down. But then she can’t be, not with that kind of hair. She looks like the bottom of a broom after an especially rough Quidditch match.”

“Okay, you’re talking about my friends here?” I say, putting up my palms. His sneer fades. He’s silent for a minute or so, then he says, all nonchalance, “You aren’t going to introduce me, are you.”

“They know you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course I’m going to. They are my friends, and you are...”

I break off. He smirks.

“You’re going to have to work on that introduction, Harry.”

-

When I walk up to our table in the Flying Pumpkin with my bacon butterbeer that Friday night, Ron and Hermione are already there. Ron is checking something on his Y-pad and slurping pumpkin soup, and Hermione is sipping at her horrible soy beer, and they are holding hands. They aren’t wearing any rings. I don’t know why I suddenly notice these things. I don’t know why I ask that question when I sit down either, but suddenly it’s out there, hanging in the air.

“Ever thought about getting married?”

Ron goes on looking intently at his Y-pad as if he hadn’t heard. Hermione turns to me, squinting at me over her mug.

“What, you want us to get married? How old-fashioned.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Yeah, because you’re gay. Because you’ve spent so much energy campaigning for same-sex marriage to be made legal…”

“I haven’t, really.”

“Yeah, okay. But you’re still a special case. You lost your parents when you were a baby. Of course you’d have fantasies about happy family life. That’s what you saw in that mirror, didn’t you. The mirror that shows people their heart’s desire. It’s natural that for you, it would be your parents, your family. Love, faith, belonging.”

“So maybe I had fantasies about love, faith and belonging. What’s wrong with it.”

“Only that it’s just that, a fantasy. An Ideal.”

“So you’re saying that any marriage is doomed? That my parents would have split up if Voldemort hadn’t killed them first?”

“Okay, sorry, Harry. You’re right, no personal references. Let’s try again. Okay. Marriage. Wanting someone to belong to you forever. Wanting to own them. Thinking of your partner as being yours. It’s just wrong on so many levels!”

“Getting generic. Try again.”

“Okay, marriage is a concept of yesteryear! At best, wedlock is one option out of many these days, and not the most attractive one you’d have to conclude if you have a look at the statistics. And it has been an instrument of female oppression for centuries. With women’s economic status on the rise, they aren’t financially dependent anymore, so no need for anyone anymore to make promises that are hard to keep.”

“And what about you? Personally?” I say. She throws a furtive glance at Ron who still seems to be engrossed in his Y-pad.

“I don’t need a wedding ring,” she says firmly.

“O Merlin, let that be not true, please!” Ron exclaims, throwing the Y-pad into his pumpkin soup and slapping himself in the face, then pulling at his hair with both hands like he wants to rip his scalp off.

The only explanation is he just bought a fifty carat diamond engagement ring.

“O Merlin,” he repeats, “the Cannons took another goal, they’re going down!”

Hermione looks slightly miffed.

“Harry was just asking if you intended to pop the question anytime soon.”

The look he gives me is priceless. Wtf with freckles.

Later in the bathroom he confronts me, fuming.

“That wasn’t cool, mate, putting me on the spot like that!”

“Don’t you want to marry her?”

He looks flustered.

“Don’t you?” I press on.

“That’s not the point here! It’s not your job to bring it up!”

“So, will you? Bring it up?”

He shrugs, looking close to hysterical. As close to hysterical as he can get, being Ron Weasley.

“Maybe. Eventually. When I’m ready. When it’s the right time. When I’ve got everything sorted out,” he says.

So he actually is planning to propose. I should have known. That’s why he’s been so strung up lately. Feelings of being inadequate. Fear of rejection. Practicing the talk.

And Hermione preached just now how she so doesn’t need that shit of yesteryear. But he didn’t listen, so he doesn’t know.

I could tip him off, but I decide not to. Because I’ve still got the feeling everything is going to work out with the two of them in the end. With or without a wedding ring.

And I?

I like things to be simple. Ever since I defeated the Dark Lord, I’ve been perfectly content with what I had, my everyday life as a single. Voldemort gone, my scar not hurting. Everything being well. I’ve never felt the need for big concepts like Forever, or Happy Ever After. Or Finding The One. The only marriage I’ve ever seen at work from up close is the Dursleys’, and let’s just say theirs wasn’t the most inspiring example.

But still, family.

Hermione is probably right with what she said about me. But she’ll never truly understand. She will never know the desperate emptiness I feel deep down whenever I’m staying at the Burrow with the Weasleys, the burning envy at the shared everyday routines, at the natural way everybody just belongs.

Yeah, there is something about family. And if I know one thing, it’s that Hermione’s two dentists have given her far more than perfectly corrected teeth. And Ron will never reach the level of awareness to understand he had the best life imaginable as a kid.

Of course I’m a grown-up. I don’t believe there’s The One somewhere out there waiting for me. I don’t want to own anybody.

Or Draco.

Only every time I think about what would be the adequate term to call him when I’ll introduce him to Hermione and Ron at last, there’s the word my.

Like in, my flatmate. Or my carpool buddy. Or my best gay friend.

Or my heart’s desire.


	15. Vanity

He has discovered the Muggle mall outside my building, and now he’s permanently shopping in the drugstore. Apparently Vanity Spells and Muggle cosmetics totally complement each other, or so he claims. He must have spent half his first salary on those beauty products. Mostly shampoos and hair sprays and styling gels. They take up all the room on the shelf below the mirror in the bathroom. And he does take ages in there. I mean, a lot of people take long in the bathroom. Especially gay twinks like him. It isn’t necessarily a fairy thing. He also uses his wand to apply eyeliner. He even does it in the car, on the ride to work. It doesn’t mean he’s vain, though. He’s part-fairy, but that doesn’t make him vain, does it. I hate that kind of prejudice.

-

It’s not all prejudice. He is vain. It’s not just the eyeliner. Every morning when we set off for the Ministry he’s wearing a new hair style. He doesn’t even stop at pink hair extensions, or Rasta. And he seems to be doing stuff to his clothes, too. Lowering necklines, adding glimmering buckles to belts and stuff. It doesn’t help with avoiding attention, obviously. It makes people look. I mean, sure it’s great that he doesn’t feel he’s got to hide anymore. But that receptionist, that Reuben guy, he’s totally checking him out each and every night when we pass his booth. And Jenkins’ assistant, Samuel Kendricks with the muscle and the perfect hair, isn’t any better. I could totally read the look he gave Draco when we met in the parking garage the other morning. Of course he’s wondering what Draco looks like underneath those jeans. He has tightened them so they totally hug his ass. I can’t blame Kendricks for that, can I. I can’t blame anybody for staring at my flashy, lovely flat-mate slash carpool buddy slash best gay friend. I can’t blame those guys for having eyes and being as gay as I am.

But God, I do hate their guts.


	16. Hate

I’ve checked back with the Azkaban prison management to gather some more intel about the Dementor that attacked Draco. The guy I talked to on Video Phono didn’t give any sign of recognition when he saw my face and heard my name. He appeared to be straight out of Hogwarts, not a day older than eighteen. He claimed he couldn’t give me any details over Video Phono, and that I’d have to bring a special permit for this kind of inquiries. That’s the trouble with young people; to them, the name Harry Potter isn’t the stuff of legend anymore like it still is for my generation. Yeah, maybe I’m just three years older than this noob, but he was still a kid when Voldemort became history, and that does make him a different generation. Anyway, I dropped by the Minister of Magic and got myself that permit, then went to pay those guys at Azkaban a call.

It was worth the trouble. I brought back just one piece of information from that trip, but it changes everything.

The Dementor returned after less than an hour. You’ve only got to do the math. Azkaban is located in the middle of the North Sea, that’s at least a four hour flight to Knockturn Alley on a good broom. Now Dementors are obviously way faster than brooms, but even they need time to cover that kind of distance. The thing must have flown to London at top speed. It’s not at all normal behaviour for a Dementor to distance itself from its swarm like that. It must have acted on directions. It must have been promised an unusually delicious treat waiting for it at that specific spot in Knockturn Alley.

Like the soul of a man who’s part-fairy.

I’ve got absolutely no proof for my theory. But all my instincts tell me I’m right about this.

Someone put that Dementor up to take Draco’s soul.


	17. Angels and mice

It’s past ten p.m., and I’m still waiting for him in the entrance hall. There must be a lot of dishes to be washed up down at Potions today. There are machines for that kind of thing that are for more effective than old-fashioned cleaning spells. But obviously Professor Jenkins isn’t interested in having his section modernized like that. And why should he be, as long as he’s got Draco as his personal house elf. I get more exasperated with the old bird by the minute. And more nervous.

It’s ten twenty when I call the lift to go down to the basement and check on Draco. I don’t want to pop up behind him and give him a scare, so I don’t Apparate. As the lift soundlessly glides downwards, I realize I should have gone check on him much earlier. When the doors slide open, the ding ringing ominously off the stone walls, my skin is pricking with apprehension.

The vaulted ceiling is hanging too low, it’s like pressing down on me as I start walking down the hallway towards the main lab at the end. He told me that’s where he usually spends the evenings, doing the dishes. The oil lamps flicker in the chilly draft, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Yeah, something about this place gets at me. I’m definitely not used to this Hogwartsy kind of gloom anymore. A big black mouse scurries past me, making me jump. Ever since Peter Pettigrew, I’ve had a problem with rodents. I always suspect they’re really people. And not the nice kind. This mouse could easily be an animagus, it could be some old Death Eater pal of Lucius Malfoy’s who evaded prosecution and kept his job in the Ministry and offered to ambush Draco after hours.

When I enter the main lab, he’s nowhere to be seen. It’s pitch dark. I call out his name. No response, nothing. I’ve just lit the room with Lumos when I hear a sound in the hallway, coming from the direction of Jenkins’ office. I whip around, wand drawn, but before I see anyone or can react in any way, it flies from my hand. Disarmed like a bloody beginner. Fuck. Then the lights go out. Fuck again. Where’s that attacker, for fuck’s sake. Where’s Draco. -

And then, suddenly, there’s something like a heavenly apparition before me, three feet away. It’s him. His frame is lit from behind by his wings. They are bathing his body and face in a warm glow. His chest is chiselled gold, and his wings are spreading from his shoulders shining like, yeah, like they’re made of fairy lights. He looks like an angel.

Or he would, if it weren’t for the Malfoy smirk.

“You afraid of the dark, Harry Potter?”

“Don’t do that kind of stuff,” I say hoarsely, struggling to regain my composure. Something flits across the floor, close to his feet. It’s the black mouse again. I cry out with shock.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of mice, too! Harry, you’re The Saviour!”

He’s laughing at me. Sneering at me. It should stop me from worrying so much about him. It really should.

“Has it been following you around? The mouse?”

“Oh come on, Harry. You’re being paranoid. You came down here because you thought Jenkins was boiling me in the big cauldron, didn’t you.”

I shiver at the words. There’s a new horror vision. Shaking his head, he hands me my wand.

“Chill, man, I was joking! Sorry I was late, but it’s really busy down here at the moment, I can’t always drop my wand at five to ten.”

“I know. I know. I’m just afraid something might happen to you.”

His expression softens in a way that makes him look one-hundred percent the celestial being I thought he was when he ambushed me just now.

“Don’t be, Harry. The Dementor was a case of wrong time, wrong place, I’m sure.”

“What if your father was behind it,” I say.

“He wasn’t. Ever since he was in Azkaban, he has been dead afraid of Dementors. You know, once he came into my room at Malfoy Manor when I was practicing the Patronus charm, and he totally panicked at the sight of the Dementor dummy I had conjured up. He wetted his robes, I swear. I guess it didn’t make him any fonder of me that I saw that.” He chuckles. “Anyway, he wouldn’t be able to go near a cage full of Dementors, let alone free one of them, even if you could just walk into Azkaban to do such a thing, which you can’t.”

“Still, Draco, I don’t like it that you’re working late all the time, alone. And down here.”

“There’s no safer place for me to be than this lab. We’re right in the Ministry, aren’t we. There’s security. No one can Apparate in.”

“Can’t you at least promise me to wear your amulet at all times?”

He shakes his head again, but he says yes to that.

While he packs up his things, then comes with me to the lift, he keeps talking about how I need to loosen up, and how I’m being totally paranoid.

Perhaps I am.

And then perhaps I’m not.

-

There is no black mouse in the Ministry’s Register of Animagi. But that doesn’t mean the mouse in the Potions Section isn’t a wizard. Or a witch. There’s animagi who never register with the Ministry.

I guess I do react particularly sensitive to rodents, like that black mouse. Its teeth remind me of Ron’s rat and its alter ego, Peter Pettigrew.

And they remind me of Marcus Flint, too.


	18. Bulls and bottles

I come into the kitchen, dripping wet, a towel round my hips. I stepped into the shower, than saw I had forgotten to take the new rinse-out hair oil I bought in the Muggle drugstore from the shopping bag. I've tried every Smoothing Spell to be found on the Y-pad on my unruly hair over the last years, and nothing's ever really worked. If what Draco says about Muggle products is true, and that product name, Ultra Effective Super Softening Oil, isn't a total scam, I guess it's worth a try.

Draco is at the kitchen table, eating honey straight from the jar and reading a Muggle paper. I expect him to keep doing that, or at least pretend to keep doing that. It’s the decent thing to do after all, with me being half naked. I fish the hair oil from the bag, then turn around again. It seems he doesn’t care for decent. He has put his jar and paper down and is totally checking me out.

“What now,” I say, clutching my hair oil bottle. I expect him to comment on that bottle. But he doesn't do that. Getting up from his chair and walking up to me, he says, “Wow, Harry, you’ve changed so much. You’ve really filled out. You’re like, I don’t know. Like a bull, with that chest and neck and shoulders.”

He isn't laughing at me for a change, he's complimenting me. Yeah, there’s something in his tone that makes me like being called a bull. But then he ruins everything with his next sentence.

“You using an expanding potion?”

A potion? He thinks I got this body by drinking a bloody potion? I only use the occasional protein shake, that’s all!

“It’s called working out, Draco. A Muggle thing. Hard work in the gym.”

“The gym?”

“It’s a Muggle term. It’s what we call our training room in the Auror Department. We lift weights and stuff. This is no magic, just real, honest muscle.”

Draco’s eyes won’t leave my chest and upper arms.

“You don’t believe me? Feel free to check!”

I wouldn’t have offered that if I hadn’t felt so ridiculously offended. Turns out I can’t take it if Draco thinks my bulk is less than one hundred percent real.

It also turns out I can’t take him checking. The touch of his fingers on my skin sends a spark of heat down my spine straight to my crotch. I clutch at my towel. He doesn’t realize what’s happening to me.

“You got scars all over now,” he says, his voice low. “That’s because you’re an Auror, isn’t it. You got all these injuries from hunting down terrorists for the Ministry. People who’d use dark magic on you.” He’s tracing my scars with his fingertips. “Still putting yourself out there for the greater good. I guess you truly are what they call a hero.”

He circles the puckered skin of a fresh scar on my abs with his thumb, scrutinizing it from so close his soft hair tickles my chest.

“You weren’t wearing any protective gear when you got this, did you. Why would you be careless like that, Harry?”

“I don’t want to forever be the boy with just the lightning scar, I guess,” I say, my voice shaking.

“I’m wearing that shield amulet for your sake, can’t you do the same for me?” he asks, ignoring my attempt at joking, his fingers still resting on my body. I’m so excited by now my breathing has lost all rhythm.

“You okay?” he asks, looking up at my face at last, his beautiful brow furrowed.

“Just need to grab... that shower,” I croak. Using the bottle of hair oil to keep my towel from tenting, I flee to the bathroom.

I beat off two times in a row before I get round to take care of my hair.


	19. Shadows

He’s out in the hallway, putting on my leather jacket, checking the Mohican he chose for the night in the mirror. He’s seeing Marcus Flint, again.

When I step between him and the mirror to tell him I don’t like it, he shakes his head.

“I do. It makes me look taller, you see.”

“You know what I mean.”

He sighs.

“You’re seeing your friends, I’m seeing mine. Where’s the problem.”

“Marcus Flint is the problem. He’s not your friend, he’s trouble. He might harm you.”

“Why would he want to do that? And also, if he did want to harm me, why hasn’t he done so already? He could have avada kedavraed me a hundred times by now!”

I can’t even bear hearing him spell it out. He could get avada kedavraed.

He reaches up to put his hands on my shoulders.

“Stop it, Harry,” he says. “Seriously, stop it. I’ll be fine. And don’t get it into your head to shadow me. You need to have some faith, else this is not going to work.”

What isn’t going to work? He has managed to send my thoughts off in a whole different direction with those last words; to create visions in my head of us, together. And he uses the moment to smile, throw a last glance at the mirror, and Disapparate.

-

I’m pacing the living room like a caged tiger. Shit, I have a bad feeling. A very bad feeling, and it’s getting worse by the minute, and I can’t get a grip on it.

It’s like when my scar used to hurt when Voldemort was on the move, only now the feeling isn’t in my head, it’s in my chest. My heart.

Does it mean he’s in danger? Or is it true after all what he says, am I just being paranoid? Or jealous, and just afraid for myself? Is this the shadows of my past, a subconscious fear of getting left behind again like I was twenty years ago?

Either way, I can’t stay here in my flat and do nothing. So I do it, I pull on the robe I keep for undercover missions, apply a Nondescript Hex to my face so no one will take notice of me, and Apparate over to the Flying Pumpkin.

-

Draco can’t be into Flint. Flint looks like he’s part-troll, he really does. I have been watching him for three hours now from behind the Daily Prophet, so I can safely pass judgement on this. That scruffy hair, and that heavy-set frame. No one can possibly dig that. Then I remember something Ron said the other night. About me looking like a troll.

There are certain parallels between me and Flint, as much as I hate to admit it. We both got bulk and black hair that looks unkempt. Only Flint’s really is, and there’s probably stink bugs living in it, judging from his smell.

It doesn’t help that he’s constantly using that deodorant spray Draco has been telling me about. Its sweet vapours drift over from the billiard tables to where I’m sitting at the counter, alternating with the wafts of Flint’s incredibly pervasive natural stink and making me slightly nauseous. Draco moves around the billiard table to choose the best angle for his next shot, and probably to bring some distance between Flint and himself. I lift the Daily Prophet for another couple of inches to keep my face covered. He has no reason to suspect the man with the less than memorable face sitting at the bar reading his paper is actually me. That Nondescript Hex has worked with all my acquaintances until now. But then he isn’t an acquaintance. I don’t know what he is exactly, but he’s definitely something else. I just know he’d recognize me if I let him.

But he’s concentrating on his game. He would. If there’s a game on, he wants to win. And he does. Flicking his cue wand through the air in a precisely calculated movement, he drives three balls at once into their designated pockets, winning the game.

Flint puts some more spray on himself, then steps up to Draco, offering him a fresh drink. He’s clearly going out of his way to be nice to Draco. Maybe he’s gay. That would be too bad. I look on as he grins at Draco, high-fiving him to congratulate him on that incredible last shot. He has really unfortunate front teeth, Flint. Rodent teeth. No one goes for rodent teeth. Safe rodents, probably.

Shit, I’m not getting anywhere with this.

I decide to Apparate back home. No point in risking him coming home before me and realizing he’s living with a deceitful, crazy creep.

-

This time, it’s both the plopping sound of his Apparating and the sweetish smell of Flint’s deodorant sneaking through his closed door that tell me he’s safely back.

In the morning, he’s perfectly fine. I feel more like that crazy creep than ever.

We go on a trip to the countryside in my Mini. It’s a rainy autumn Sunday, and for want of a better idea, we visit a crumbling castle with a muddy park together with about a hundred Japanese tourists. Draco keeps dropping abusive remarks about the Muggle Y-pads they keep holding up to take pictures, always looking at their screens and never at the real thing. On the way back, we stop at a cottage offering tea and scones and rickety garden benches to sit on that give you splinters in the backside. Yeah, it’s a lovely day, the kind of Sunday I want to have for the rest of my life, actually. And I’m just so happy that he isn’t angry at me for spying on him when I tell him on that bench what I did last night, and even more so that he’s fine.

But when we drive back into the city, he starts looking feverish, and when we have entered our building, he collapses on the staircase.

I don’t have time to think about why it’s happening again. It’s even worse than the last time. Even though I cast Anapneo at him the moment I've carried him into my flat, he's going into choking seizures again and again. His face turns a bluish grey and the vessels in his large eyes burst, and I get afraid he’s going to die on my hands. Over and over, I cast Anapneo, but the effect doesn’t last like it did before. I gather him into my arms. There’s just one thing to be done now.

“Draco, I need to take you to St. Mungo’s.”

“No, no, don’t do that to me, Harry, don’t do that to me, please, Harry…”

He chokes, and his hands go to his throat in helpless agony.

“Anapneo,” I cry. “Anapneo!”

His breathing evens out. Oh God, let this be for good, please, God.

“Don’t take me to St. Mungo’s, Harry.”

“It’s alright, love, it’s alright, don’t waste your strength. We’re going to stay here, alright?”

“Yeah, we stay here, we stay here. I can’t have anyone see my wings, it’s just Harry who can see them, just Harry…”

It’s the fever that brings on this agitation, the fever that makes him lose orientation like this. It feels worse than anything that he doesn’t recognize me anymore.

“I’m here, Draco. I’m Harry, and I’m going to take care of you, here in my flat. Just calm down, please.”

“Harry. Harry. You know nobody must see what I am. The monstrosity I am.”

That word again. I want to kill Lucius Malfoy with my bare hands just for planting this word into his son’s head.

“You aren’t! You aren’t a monstrosity!”

He nods, like I confirmed what he said.

“I’ve known I was ever since I’ve known you. Long before the wings came out. You know, I had those dreams, all through our years in Hogwarts. Wet dreams. I was so afraid someone would find out, Harry.”

He’s sweating, fighting for breath again. When he goes on speaking, I can hardly make out the words anymore.

“I wanted to be dead I was so ashamed. So ashamed, Harry... Harry…”

I’ve got to calm him. I can’t have him live through his teenage traumas now, have him walk through the shadows of that old shame.

“Draco. You know it’s perfectly normal to have wet dreams at that age. Everybody had them.”

He’s sneering at nothing, his bloodshot eyes unfocused, like he’s drifting off to some place only he can see.

“Draco?”

“Trust me, not the kind I got,” he whispers. Then, from one second to the next, he falls into unconsciousness.

-

The next morning, he’s better. It was just helplessness that made me use Anapneo as often as I did, but it seems to have cured him.

For now.

He denies the sickness must have to do with Flint.

“He didn’t jinx me. I would have noticed. You would have noticed. And I’ve still got your amulet. It would ward off any kind of curse.”

“But that was no normal flu or anything!”

“Perhaps I don’t tolerate the alcohol as well as I used to. You know how I told you I’ve only been sick like this since I Changed? I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s the butterbeer. I don’t like it as much as I used to anyway, and I really hate those flavours. Maybe I should quit drinking.”

“You mean because you’re different now? Physically more delicate?”

“I’ll show you delicate, Potter!”

He deals me a blow into the ribs that’s really painful and that tells me that he truly is fighting fit again.

And his lovely open grin tells me he has forgotten what he told me last night in his moments of agony, about old dreams and wanting to die.


	20. Expecto Patronum

I’m training him in Defence against the Dark Arts. I’ve got some experience with teaching, dating back to the days of Dumbledore’s Army, and I do have a knack for it, though I say so myself.

I’m really motivated, too. Because I just know he’s in danger.

But Draco doesn’t take things seriously. He keeps calling me Professor, and constantly uses Expelliarmus. It makes our wands dance around each other mid-air. The two have a special relationship, it’s like they know it’s not a real fight.

It’s rather nice, but it’s making training difficult.

The worst thing is, he still can’t conjure a Patronus. I force him to practice every Sunday. Someone set that Dementor on him. Regardless of whether it was his father or someone else, it could happen again. Lately he has made some progress. He has managed a glimmering fog that looks like a big, shapeless beast. Only it never fully materializes into a corporal Patronus, it simply dissolves after two or three seconds.

Thankfully he’s really good at duelling. His reflexes haven’t dimmed one bit; if anything, they’ve sharpened since we fought each other in Hogwarts. When I compliment him on his skills after he has sent me skidding across the whole length of my flat’s hallway one night, he tells me it’s all thanks to my special gift as a teacher, and engages me in a discussion about my professional future. He wants me to quit the Auror Department and go into teaching instead. He’s saying he’s worried about my safety, and I just love that. I also love being an Auror, though, and I tell him that. Being Draco Malfoy, he doesn’t admit defeat that easily. He informs me that the position of Professor for Defence against the Dark Arts in Hogwarts has recently been newly advertised, yet again, then suggests I send an application, just so I’ll know my options. He knows the idea to go back to Hogwarts as a teacher appeals to me. And he also knows how to cut short his training sessions without me really noticing. There’s a sly in Slytherin for a reason.

He likes watching me fight, though.

“Show me how you do it,” he asks when I tell him we’ve got to get back to work, and then he settles back to watch me send a hologram of Voldemort crash against the wall.

“Shit, that’s just so drop-dead sexy, Harry. Do it again. That really works for me.”

And I do it, although I know I shouldn’t let him manipulate me like that. Only knowing he’s watching me with his eyes full of stars is really working for me, too.

Yeah, it is hard to train him.

Pun intended.


	21. Occlumency

He’s found a Muggle sports channel. Now his favourite after-dinner activity is switching back and forth between Waltzing Wizards and Eurosports to check if there’s a car race on. It’s surprising how often there is. Screeching tyres and howling motors so aren’t my idea of a chill evening home.

We’ve fought about that tonight, and surprisingly, he relented and switched the horror off. Only then he occupied my Y-Pad. When I said I needed it to check on something, he got angry.

“You told me to watch Muggle television, and when I’m doing it, you complain. Now I’m looking up Muggle stuff on the Y-Pad, like you told me, too, and you’re complaining, again! You’re really difficult to live with, Harry, has anyone ever told you that?”

I don’t think anyone has, not since Privet Drive.

When I sit at the table, stuck with the Daily Prophet, I feel it’s not quite fair how our little run-in played out. But then I can’t very well snatch my Y-Pad from him with Accio. I literally can’t, because he’d summon it right back, and with our powers being balanced out like they are, we’d end up spending the evening flipping the Y-Pad back and forth between us. I know he’s not above that kind of thing. Because if there is something he truly hates, it’s losing. Then, out of the blue, he asks, “You want your Y-pad back?”

I’m so startled by this dovishness I can’t even say yes.

“Don’t look so incredulous, Harry, that’s insulting. You still see me as this asshole that wants to gain the upper hand at all times, don’t you. I might not be the most angelic of flatmates, but I can do compromise, you know.”

So I offended him by saying he wasn’t angelic.

“It’s alright, keep the Y-pad, Draco,” I say.

“I’ve been watching too much telewizard lately, and been using the Y-Pad too often, too. I haven’t had any experience with that kind of entertainment before, you know, so I guess my self-control slipped a bit. My father never allowed any of that in our house, called it Muggle style and modern filth and unworthy of a true wizard. So, sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to bite back at you like I did. How about we switch off the Y-Pad for tonight and just talk for a bit? If you like?”

I put the Daily Prophet to the side. I’ve still got to get used to him saying sorry to me. And to seeing this side of him, unguarded and so, so sweet.

“Alright, what would you like to talk about?”

“Anything? Anything you’d like to talk about?”

That’s an opportunity I’m not going to let pass.

“Okay. Okay, I’d like you to tell me some more about your life. I want to know what it was like to be you back in the days of Voldemort. Being in the centre of it all, the son of a Death Eater. Being expected to become one yourself.”

His fingers trace the outlines of the Y-pad. Finally he looks up and says, “When you learnt that my father was a Death Eater, I bet you weren’t that surprised. But when I found out, my life combusted. Of course there had always been that obsession with pure blood and all that in our family, and I knew my father wasn’t the best kind of person. But learning that he actually worked for that mass murderer…”

He shakes his head and puts the Y-pad on the couch table before him with uncharacteristic care.

“You see, I had no one to confide in, no one I’d have dared to talk to about my father. All my mother had to say was that we had to keep everything Voldemort a secret, or we’d all die. And when my father went to Azkaban, things got worse. Voldemort approached me, he ordered me to let him brand me with his Mark.”

“How did you pull it off. That the Dark Mark didn’t stay on you, and that Voldemort never realized it.”

“That was pretty simple, really,” he replies. “I had impregnated my arm with a potion I had developed. It was like an invisible coating, so the Mark couldn’t really sink into my skin when he put it on me, you see? The moment he had left, I rubbed it off with a plain cleansing spell, then sketched on a new mark with my wand. I showed it off to others, and it fooled them. And more importantly, it fooled Voldemort.”

“Wow,” I say. He shrugs.

“I couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been training myself in Occlumency for years before that. My father had had this way of always trying to control my thoughts when I was a kid, you know. That’s why I decided to learn Occlumency. I’m really good at it. You can try me some day. Yeah, old Voldemort never found out how I duped him. Yeah, I’m really proud of my Occlumency skills. And my drawing skills, of course.”

He winks at me, as if it had all been a game, as if he hadn’t been risking his life like that.

“That was really courageous of you, fooling Voldemort about the Dark Mark.”

He grins.

“Can you see me allowing someone to put an ugly permanent tattoo like that on me? Honestly, at least give me some credit for vanity.”

He winks at me again. So he knows about my petty thoughts about his array of bottles in the bathroom. Yeah, he isn’t only good at Occlumency, he’s good at mind-reading, too, it seems. And he doesn’t even need to use Legilimency for it. I feel bad for being the small person I am, but he doesn’t call me out on it, he simply goes on sharing his memories with me.

“I guess he found out eventually,” he says. “When he Summoned all the Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts and I didn’t show, you know. He certainly tried to make me, he could make the Mark burn so much people passed out from the pain if they didn’t react to a call. But not me. I knew he was Summoning people to the Dark Forest, but I decided I’d rather not join his little party in the woods.”

He laughs, self-satisfied.

“That was quite a risk to take. Weren’t you afraid for your life?”

“You know why I had to stay in Hogwarts. I had to keep you busy so you wouldn’t go meet Voldemort. I didn’t want you to duel him. I wanted someone else to kill him. I hoped Neville Longbottom would do it.”

It’s the first time he has openly admitted he cared about me already then. He doesn’t realize it though, he’s caught up in remembering those final hours of Voldemort’s reign.

“When you came back to Hogwarts, when I saw you again, determined to fulfil your destiny, that was just so… God, Harry, I guess you don’t want to hear that, but you were just so damn sexy. You were still you, but you were stronger. Harder. People say you used the Cruciatus Curse on Amycus Carrow. Is that true?”

I squirm in embarrassment.

“I don’t know why I did that. It was the stress. I wouldn’t ever use that curse again.”

“You would, if you had to,” he says, looking at me, his eyes shining. It completely fazes me.

“Are you telling me you’ve got a thing for guys who use unforgivable curses?” I squeak.

He shakes his head, and the shine in his eyes turns into those tiny, dancing stars.

“I guess I’ve got a thing for heroes. You’re a fighter and a boss, Harry. You’d never go down without giving a bad guy hell. You’d do anything to save what’s yours.”

I want to say something, but I’ve forgotten what it was. I look at him, his beautiful face, his sparkling eyes.

He’s right.

I would.

I don’t know if that makes me a hero. But as I’m bathing in the silver light of his gaze now, for the first time in my life I actually do feel like one. I’ve never been really proud of having defeated the Dark Lord. It was more like, I did it, and that was that. But Draco doesn’t seem to see it like that.

“It was only you who could stand up to Voldemort. Only you,” he says, his voice shaking with emotion. “I would have been doomed without you. You know, when he assigned me the job to kill Dumbledore to punish my father? You know what that meant, Harry. He would have killed both my parents if I had tried to defy him, just like he killed yours. I was desperate, I didn’t know a way out. I never found one.”

“You didn’t kill Dumbledore.”

“No, but he still got killed. And I was so afraid that my mother would be next. I saw how Voldemort was playing with my parents, how he took sick pleasure in reducing my father to a powerless beggar and residing in our house as its true master. Voldemort hated my father for his name, for the Malfoys’ wealth and position in the wizarding world. I knew I had no way of keeping my parents safe. My only hope was you, Harry. And you saved them, you saved my mother, everyone. And you did it with my wand.”

He looks at me, his grey eyes still speckled with those tiny stars. I stare at him, trying to tell myself this is just another one of his Vanity Incantations, but I know it’s not, it’s something much more ancient than wizardry, something innate and beautiful and true.

“Have you ever thought about that, Harry? What it means that you defeated the Dark Lord with my wand?”

He draws a deep breath.

“It’s a rare thing that a wand works for another wizard, even if they’re close. I could never really channel the energy of my mother’s wand. And she’s the person closest to me. She was. But when you fought Voldemort, you wielded the ultimate power using my wand.”

We look at each other. It's the closest we've ever been to laying bare our souls, I know.

“And I can switch television channels with yours,” he says, and we cover up the moment with laughter.


	22. The Ministry’s Map

“Here’s your map, Harry.”

Lin has just stepped into my office and hands me a rolled-up parchment. Eagerly, I spread it out. It’s perfect, it’s exactly what I wanted.

A map of the Ministry showing everybody in it as a tiny moving dot and identified by name, just like the Marauder’s Map. Like of their own accord, my eyes search for Draco’s name. Yeah, there he is, in the Potion’s Department in the basement, together with Sam Kendrick. A bit too close together with Sam Kendrick. Jenkins is in his office. That’s all the names showing up in the basement. No Marcus Flint. That means he’s not down there using an animagus shape as camouflage. Nor is anyone else. No one is trying to ambush Draco, pretending to be a mouse.

Maybe I was being paranoid about that mouse. But it’s always best to make sure.

“Now tell me, Harry, what exactly do you need this for,” Lin asks. Of course she’s been watching me check the map. Of course she’d ask this.

I still had to put in a request for this map. I simply need to be able to make sure he’s alright. It doesn’t mean I’ve turned into an overprotective husband, obsessed with protecting. This is just common sense.

“Harry?"

She can be a pain in the neck, Lin. But she’s also the one person who’s able to produce a map like this. I knew she would do it. She likes me.

Or rather, she liked the kid I was. I’ve got the feeling she’s a bit dissatisfied with how I turned out. And I think it’s not just about the fact that I’m using the f-word a bit too often these days. I think she doesn’t relate to me liking to rough people up in duels so much. She’s the kind who expects people to become an Auror just to make the world a better place.

“Harry,” she told me just the other day on one of her rare, random visits to my office, “Remember, you want to give something back to society. Your education is a privilege and a responsibility. You shouldn’t use it just for your own gratification.”

I get where she’s coming from, but I don’t really care for that kind of talking. I resent the nagging undertone. I mean, I’m doing my job, I hunt down former Death Eaters and current top terrorists, so society should be frigging satisfied. Lin is clever, no doubt, but I liked it better when Dumbledore shared his wisdom with me. And I don’t really want to talk to her about why I need this map. But she has already pulled a chair up to my desk and sits down next to me like for a cosy heart-to-heart.

“Harry. You seem to be very concerned for Draco Malfoy’s well-being these days. Have you forgotten who he is?”

What the fuck? Okay, that impertinent question does require an answer.

“I’ve only now found out who he is! He never was what he seemed to be, Lin. He never was on the dark side!”

“I think I know that better than you do, Harry, and believe me, he was.”

I don’t know why, but I feel an irresistible urge to argue my point.

“Right, listen, Lin. Draco was being mistreated by a Death Eater already in the fourth year, remember? When Crouch transformed him into a ferret and made him hit the walls for minutes on end?" 

She actually smiles at the recollection.

"I can't see how there's anything funny about someone getting victimized and hurt like that!" I bark. "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't smile about it like you do if Crouch had done the same thing to an actual ferret! Anyway, the incident is proof enough that Draco had no protection, that his father’s name didn’t keep him safe from the Death Eaters’ malice. Draco was just a helpless boy in the eye of a storm of evil!”

“Excuse me, Harry, Draco was a bully. He has always been a terrible, heartless snob. Seriously, how could you develop this pathetic crush on him.”

“Excuse me, Lin, not every classroom bully grows up to be a sociopath with no feelings! Yeah, maybe he did make mistakes, hurt people. But he never killed anyone. He never made a free decision to join the Dark Lord, either. His father did, but not Draco. Do you want to hold him responsible for carrying the same name? For having trouble finding his way as a teenager in a horrible, hostile world? Yeah, he was just a teenager when he chose to be a pain in everybody’s ass, back when you looked into our lives at Hogwarts. You can’t hold him fully accountable for how he behaved then, no criminal court would do that!”

“You’re forgetting they did exactly that! Draco Malfoy was officially convicted of being a Death Eater!”

“He isn’t a Death Eater, he never was! I’m telling you, if they had looked at the evidence with any real wish to understand what actually happened, they’d never have sentenced him!”

“You honestly believe Draco Malfoy never was a follower of the Dark Lord? I can’t fathom how that notion got into your head, Harry.”

“You have all the facts, don’t you, Lin. You know everything I do, for Godric’s sake! It’s obvious Draco tried everything in his power to covertly sabotage the Dark Lord’s plans!”

She scoffs. It makes me really mad.

“He did! If he hadn’t acted the Death Eater, he would have put his parents’ lives at stake. But he tried to save my life, and more than once! At Malfoy Manor, for example, when he didn’t give me away to his father! And during the Battle of Hogwarts, too, when he tried to stop Crabbe from killing me in the Room of Requirements!”

“Draco Malfoy attacked you in the Room of Requirements!”

“He was trying to keep me busy there so the Dark Lord wouldn’t find me! Can’t you see that’s true?”

“I can see it’s pointless to argue with you over this, Harry. You are obviously strongly biased,” she says sternly. I slowly exhale.

“It’s you who’s biased, Lin. Why don’t you want to give him a second chance? Wouldn’t you agree everybody deserves at least that? You know what? If you were a true progressive, you’d have some faith in people!”

She waits for a couple of seconds to be sure I’m done, then says, “You’re romanticizing him, that’s unnerving.”

THAT’S unnerving?

Sometimes I wish I’d never come out. I wouldn’t have to listen to this crap if I hadn’t. Lin told me she was perfectly okay with me being gay when I came out, though she was clearly surprised. It seems she expected me to get married to Ginny Weasley one day or something equally conventional. And Draco probably to some upscale Slytherin girl. Yeah, she’s got no idea he’s part-fairy, and it’s not my place to tell her his story. Yeah, there are some things she doesn’t know after all. And that’s a good thing, too. It certainly is when it comes to the exact details of my romanticizing.

I still can’t just listen to her basically calling Draco unworthy of love. Sometimes I could swear she’s really a Muggle, and that that is the true reason she resents Draco so much. He used to be the essence of the proud pure-blood, and he still is ancient wizard aristocracy.

“Okay, Lin, just to set this straight. Draco is my boyfriend, or at least I want him to be, and you’ll just have to deal with that.”

I check the Ministry's Map again. Draco Malfoy is still safely in his allotted location in the Potions Department, alone with Samuel Kendricks.

Lin goes to the door, throwing me a last sour look over her shoulder.

“Just don’t forget you don’t own him, Harry.”

Godric, I hate it that I don’t.


	23. House elves

I’ve invited Hermione over to a Tuesday night soy margarine beer at the Flying Pumpkin again. I want to know what Portuba Muff says about the fairy-elves family life and the relationship between a fairy-elf and his elven partner.

“Okay, the fairy-elves of Middle Earth,” Hermione begins, as usual diving straight in. “Both elves and fairy-elves were male and distinguished fighters, but the fairy-elves were considerably smaller and slighter. Since their numbers were always somewhat low, they were held in the highest esteem as the preservers of the race. You remember they laid the eggs.”

“And you said they lived in partnerships with the elves.”

Hermione frowns at me, not happy with the interruption.

“I didn’t say partnership, that wouldn’t have been the correct term. They lived in strict monogamy with their elven partners. Portuba Muff assumes there’s evolutionary reasons for that. Fairy elves used to put so much energy into taking care of their multiple offspring that they needed a committed partner and protector. Lifelong pair bonds aren’t uncommon in species that lay eggs and provide for their young. Think birds.”

Lifelong pair bonds. Needing a committed partner and protector. Living in strict monogamy. It should probably freak me out.

“As you know, pure-blooded fairy-elves died out when elves started to mate with human females. There were simply more of those available, and they were probably perceived as less high-maintenance than fairy-elves, too. A single sex partner and multiple multiples aren’t high up on the modern male’s wish list, are they.”

“Multiples?”

“Insects don’t have just twins or triplets, you know,” Hermione says, now looking truly exasperated at getting interrupted, again. “So let’s wrap this up. The family life of the fairy-elves of Middle Earth is a thing of the past, like they are themselves. Today, there’s just the diminutive form of the woodland fairy that lives in swarms in the wild. And the house elves, of course. As another degenerated fairy-elf variant, they found a survival niche as household slaves, and are the sad evolutionary end-result of a life form genetically designed for committed relationships. Or that’s how Portuba Muff phrases it.”

“Fairies are related to house elves?”

“Yeah, the big eyes, the size, the general sweet-naturedness? And everybody being male?”

“There are female house elves...”

“There are house elves who choose to go by a female name. That doesn’t make a person physically female. As a member of the LGBT community you should be aware of that.”

I don’t listen to her anymore. Draco is related to house elves? Draco, who’s so beautiful and proud and who’ll never understand there’s such a thing as household chores, related to Dobby?

“Portuba Muff is a renowned scientist, she...” Hermione says.

“Okay, don’t list her academic achievements, I don’t understand what all these awards mean, anyway.”

“Fine. Portuba Muff knows her shit. Hope you understand what that means. So, yeah, you can trust her when she says fairies and house elves are related. I guess Draco has got bigger eyes now? And...”

“I believe you. And Portuba,” I cut her short. I think of Dobby performing his wandless magic when he was under attack. Draco washing dishes in the basement for his boss till midnight. Draco related to Dobby. Perhaps it’s not that ludicrous an idea after all. Hermione nods, satisfied.

“That’s probably why Lucius Malfoy hated Dobby so much,” she goes on. “Because he was a relative, and a daily reminder to Lucius Malfoy of his own identity as a part-elf. That kind of subconscious psychological complex is at the bottom of every form of discrimination, you know. It was one of the goals of the House Elf Liberation Front to help people understand that...”

I so don’t need to hear about Lucius Malfoy’s complexes and HELF right now.

“So basically Portuba Muff says a fairy-elf would form a lifelong bond with his protector?” I ask, aiming at a casual tone. Hermione gives me a piercing look.

“Exactly, and that’s basically why they died out, too. Nobody likes clingy, you’ve said that yourself often enough. Haven’t you, Harry?”

I can’t really remember what I used to say. I don’t care, either. Man, I hate that x-ray look on Hermione.

“Draco isn’t full fairy, Harry,” she says. “He’s just carrying some genes. Some, Harry. That doesn’t mean he wants to be owned.”

Why do all the girls keep telling me that.

What the fuck do they know about us.


	24. Ron

He fell sick, again. After a night out with Flint in the Flying Pumpkin, again. This time I got things under control pretty quickly. I’ve been reading up on healing spells and found that there’s a general recommendation to combine Anapneo with Bronchiolus Tubulatus. I tried it out, and it worked like magic. Pun intended.

But I can’t relax. Things can’t go on like this. Draco still refuses to go to St. Mungo’s; he says I’m a great healer, and he’s going to be fine, and he doesn’t want to strip in front of all those doctors. I don’t want to, but I’ve got to respect that.

It’s anything but normal though, these recurring fits of illness.

I recap. He told me he hasn’t been feeling well since he was sixteen. I damaged his heart that year, so in my opinion that is a possible explanation for his problems.

He himself thinks they were triggered by Crabbe’s and his father’s curses, and that he’s still suffering from the after-effects.

But we might both be wrong.

I can’t get the idea out of my head that someone, or Flint, is casting curses at him every time they meet up at the Flying Pumpkin.

I’m an Auror. It’s my job to hunt down people who’d commit hate crimes against a half-breed. I’m trained to follow all possible leads in such cases, to consider anyone a suspect.

And then I just won’t find rest until I know for sure that nobody’s messing with him, even though he has told me to leave things be.

It’s hard to do this on my own. But I can’t involve anyone in my department. Not when everything is so vague. But there’s still Ron. He’s my pal friend. And he’s in law enforcement, he knows how criminal minds work. He knows simply because he’s Ron, too.

So I ask him to join me in the Flying Pumpkin for an unscheduled drink.

-

“You want my professional advice, Auror Potter?” he says when we’ve sat down with our beers. He’s sounding almost like Draco. It has wounded his pride when I complained the other night about how Aurors are expected to help out with simple law enforcement jobs these days. The DLE had to cut back on staff for budget reasons, and the Ministry considers us Aurors an available resource, it seems. So they have started to unload assignments on us that are basically police work. It’s all kinds of annoying. I guess it’s true there aren’t as many terrorists around as in the days of the Dark Lord, though.

And it’s also true that yes, I do need Ron’s advice.

So I just nod. It disarms him as effectively as if I had used Expelliarmus on him.

“Right, mate, what’s up,” he asks, steepling his arms on the table in front of him.

At the mention of Draco’s name, he raises an eyebrow, but as I explain to him what my problem is, he listens attentively. I tell him everything, I only leave out the part about Fairyboy and the fact that Draco has wings. When I’m done, he says, “Right. You say he fell sick last Sunday after he’s been out with Flint in the Flying Pumpkin. And that the same thing has happened repeatedly, so you suspect someone, or Flint, might be cursing him while he’s here in the pub.”

“Right.”

“But there’s the wand ban, so Flint isn’t carrying his wand when they are together. He can’t put anything into Draco’s drink, either. If it’s true that Draco is only having water these days, he’d notice if there was poison in there. Next point, Flint doesn’t seem to have a motive. It appears convincing that he keeps inviting Draco to hang out with him because he wants to keep up the contact. He can’t have that many friends if he stinks like you say, and then they are old team buddies.”

I nod. It’s an incredible comfort to listen to Ron spelling out my own jumbled thoughts, sorting them and bringing them into an order in the dispassionate way of the true professional.

“Okay, Harry, I’d suggest we go have a look around.”

So we do it, we check the room. At the billiard tables, Ron picks up one of the wand cues.

“What if one of these is actually a wand?”

We check every single one of the twenty cues. In the end it’s clear they can do nothing but drive balls into pockets when you know how to handle them, like they are supposed to.

“Let’s ask the barmaid some questions,” Ron says.

“She’s a talker, I don’t want her to spread that I’ve been here, asking questions.”

“You don’t want Malfoy to know you’ve been here, asking questions.”

“He thinks I’m paranoid. I’ve already secretly followed him here once. He wouldn’t like it.”

“Fine, let me do it.”

Ron walks over to the counter and flashes his badge at the barmaid. It’s against the rules, since this is no official investigation. But it serves its purpose. She abandons her beer tap and takes him into a corner, obviously thrilled to be interrogated.

“Draco Malfoy?” I hear her sputter. “Yeah, he’s been here, mostly on Saturday nights. Is it true he’s dating your friend? Harry Potter? Isn’t it just unbelievable that he’s part-fairy? You wouldn't believe how the guy is dressing these days, who would ever have imagined Draco Malfoy in a belly tee with rhinestone ornaments hexed around his navel! He’s still great at billiard, though, he’s always winning…”

I don’t hear the rest. I visit the bathroom so I don’t have to feel bad about doing this behind his back. When I meet up with Ron at our table again, he looks slightly drained.

“That girl sure can talk.”

"You are used to girls who can talk, aren't you."

Ron looks at me, clearly put out.

"Hermione would never waste her time on that kind of endless jabbering about other people, okay?"

"Okay."

"She's got too much class for that, okay? Hermione's got more class than any other woman I know, so don't expect me to listen to that kind of silly remark, least of all while I'm doing this thing for you."

I quickly apologize, then ask, “You got anything?”

“She said she’s positive no one can smuggle in a wand. Security checks everyone before they enter, and there’s a wand detection charm installed at every door. And apparently Flint has never done anything worse than stinking up the place with his armpits and his deodorant and hitting the occasional guest over the head with his beer mug. He seems to be the kind of billiard player who feels his masculinity is called in question when he loses.”

“So he might not like it that Draco’s winning all the time.”

“Certainly not, but even if he wanted to make him fall ill as punishment, how would he manage to do that?” Ron says. “And it seems hurling mugs at people is more his style than casting secret curses, anyway.” He wipes something off his badge, then puts it back into his pocket. “Right. Let’s forget about Flint for a moment. Who else is there who might want to harm Malfoy, and who had the chance to get near him on a regular basis over the last weeks?”

There’s Jenkins, obviously.

“His boss? Okay. What would be his motive.”

“They are currently running tests on that new potion Jenkins has been working on for thirty years. It contains an extremely poisonous form of wolfs bane. I’ve been thinking that maybe Jenkins makes Draco come in on weekends because he’s secretly doing something illegal to him, like testing the potion on him.”

Ron weighs his head.

“Malfoy. Does he have wings?”

I don’t know what to say.

“I don’t mean to pry, mate. But if this is to be of any use, I need the facts. So, if he has, there might be our motive. Jenkins knows Draco is part-fairy, doesn’t he. Every guy in potions knows fairy wings are crazy expensive, and that you can use them for a number of potions that sell like hell. So let’s assume Jenkins is a bad guy. If Draco does have wings, Jenkins will have found out by now. And he has got access to all kinds of substances. He might hope to eventually kill Draco by secretly poisoning him, then somehow get his hands on his wings to stock up on his supplies.”

“And he might somehow administer that poison during the weekend shifts, when there’s hardly any people in the Ministry. And Draco would feel the effects the next day,” I conclude. It’s an abominable idea, but Ron is right. It’s possible. I wouldn’t put it past Jenkins. All he cares for is results, I heard him say so myself.

“And you say he’s wearing a shield amulet around the clock. It’s only potions that could go past that.” He lets that sink in, then says, “Have you had a look around in those potions labs? Talked to Jenkins?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, here’s my two Knuts for you. First, go check out those labs and that Jenkins guy. It’s always a good idea to do some field work. And second, if there’s something working on Malfoy, a potion or a dark spell that’s stronger than his amulet, there’s people who’d be able to find out. You need to get him examined.”


	25. Hermione

If there’s something working on him, there’s people who’d be able to find out. Ron’s two Knuts. He didn’t say what people, but the one person I know who could do it is his own fiancée. She isn’t a healer, but she is Hermione. And Draco has made it more than clear he won’t go anywhere near St. Mungo’s.

I visit Hermione in her office on LUM campus the next day. She doesn’t answer Video Phono calls during the workday, and I can’t wait till the evening.

“You’re expecting me to find out what’s wrong with Draco Malfoy’s health,” she says, leaning back in her chair. It’s an ergonomic executive chair, and it makes her look like an especially thin schoolgirl.

“If anyone can do it, it’s you. You’re the most knowledgeable witch or wizard I know.”

She can’t be bamboozled.

“It doesn’t follow from that that I can diagnose magical diseases. I’m not a healer, Harry.”

“But you’re the daughter of a dentist...”

“Two dentists. And that hardly qualifies me to perform medical examinations on people, does it.”

“Hermione, please. You are the only one I can trust with this. I’ll have to make him agree to allow the examination, and I don’t think I could suggest anyone else for that but you.”

“What makes you think he’ll want me of all people? He used to call me a mudblood, you know.”

I don’t know what to say. She taps her wand onto her desk impatiently.

“Aren’t you going to tell me he has changed?”

“He has,” I say.

She humphs. It could mean anything. I look at her, trying to read her. She gets up from her chair.

“Godric, Harry. I haven’t got all day. Aren’t you going to even try to find some more arguments to convince me I should do this?”

Hell, she’s going to do it. I grab for her hands.

“I really need your help with this, Hermione. Draco is my family now. I can’t just look on when he’s suffering like he does.”

She looks at me in her x-ray way, then she nods.

“Right. If it happens again, send me a voice message. I’ll take a look at him. If he wants me to.”

I’m so relieved she’s going to help me I pull her in to give her a kiss.

“Your family, huh,” she says, wiping her cheek. And I realize I did it at last, I found the term that conclusively describes what Draco is to me. All I’ve still got to do is tell him. I don’t know why I don’t do it. Or perhaps I do know, perhaps I’m afraid he’ll think me clingy. Nobody likes clingy, so I can’t risk that.

And anyway, I’ve got more pressing problems to solve than the question where Draco and I are standing relationship-wise.

-

Five days later, he’s having another fit in the middle of the night, and I call Hermione. It only takes her a minute to Apparate right by his bedside. She hasn’t even changed out of her nightgown. It’s surprisingly frilly.

She doesn’t spare me more than a curt hello, then focusses completely on Draco. Even though I’ve treated him with the usual spells, he is so sick he’s only half conscious. It doesn’t look like he even registered Hermione’s arrival.

“Did you ask him if he’s okay with this?”

“I haven’t had the time.”

“You’ve been putting it off,” she states, watching Draco as he thrashes around on his bed, struggling to draw breath. She pulls her wand from her pocket in an abrupt, business-like manner, but her brow has furrowed in compassion.

“Can you hear me? I’m going to try to find out what’s ailing you, alright? I’m just going to look at your head and chest,” she says softly, then, without bothering to turn around, she adds in a completely different, commanding tone, “Open his shirt, Harry.” 

When I’ve exposed his chest, she shoves me to the side unceremoniously and starts running her wand across his head and upper body. Then she puts her wand to her ear, using it like a stethoscope on his chest. Minutes go by as she stands bent over him, intently listening. At intervals she screws up her face and shakes her head. I don’t dare ask what she means by that. Standing on tiptoe, literally, I look on as she finally carefully pries his lips apart to move the tip of her wand across the inside of his cheek.

She murmurs an incantation I can’t make out, then she straightens herself and stuffs her wand back under her nightgown.

“Okay. This must be an illness caused by viruses or bacteria. There’s absolutely no trace of dark curses or potions in his system, or his aura. We’ll still have to wait for the lab results for the saliva sample, of course.”

“Okay.”

Her gaze is still on Draco.

“It’s really fascinating. They aren’t visible to the naked eye, but he has got tracheae and spiracles, everything.”

“What’s that.”

She gives me a soft roll-eye.

“It’s how insects breathe, Harry.”

“What, are you saying he doesn’t have lungs?”

“I’m saying his respiratory system isn’t like yours and mine. And that might make him susceptible to germs that wouldn’t harm you and me.”

“So this might be a kind of fairy flu?”

“That’s my best guess. On all accounts, I’m ninety-nine percent sure no dark magic or potion is being used to mess with him.”

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“There’s no such thing as one hundred percent in medicine, nor is there in witchcraft and wizardry, Harry. You should know that. Good night.”

She gathers her nightgown around her wispy frame, turns on her heels and is gone.


	26. Investigating

Ninety-nine percent isn’t a hundred. And Ron is right, it’s always good to do some field work. I’m going to do some investigating in the Potions Section. The first thing I do is call the works council and tell them they want to question Draco Malfoy, intern with the Potions Section, about his working hours and the safety conditions in the laboratories. I know the guys from the works council love that kind of tip-off, and that they are going to grill Draco for at least an hour. All I have to do now is put my map on my desk and check it every couple of minutes to see when he’s leaving the Potions Section. The moment I see his little dot has moved into the office of the works council on the third floor, I apparate down to the main lab.

There’s just Kendricks there, like the last time.

I tell him I was looking for Draco, then ask how he’s doing. I just let him talk for a while. He seems to be grateful for the interruption. Yeah, he doesn’t seem to be all that motivated as far as his job is concerned. He’s telling me detailed stories about the trip he’s planning. San Francisco. Capital of gay nightlife. He saved up for ages to go on that trip. All he wants is a mini break. But Jenkins is the boss from hell, he won’t give him even two days off. Keeps claiming he can’t spare anyone, the old bird.

I interrupt Kendricks’ complaining and ask what he was doing in the garage the other morning. He doesn’t look pleased at the change of subject.

“Oh, so this is an interrogation?”

“Maybe it is,” I say, not bothering to try and sound not threatening. “So. The parking garage.”

“I was waiting for the delivery van? We get new supplies every couple of days. Jenkins has us working around the clock more or less, which means we go through a lot of ingredients in a short space of time. And it’s not like we had extra staff for carrying boxes from the garage to the labs. So the old bird expects us to do that, too, on top of everything else.”

Kendricks goes on about Jenkins being this total slaveholder for another five minutes, then gets back to what seems to be his one true passion, travelling. He tells me about the trips to Berlin and Paris he took last year. He recommends places, and advertises the kinky stuff that’s to be found there, and explains to me that everything is a total frigging bargain because of the exchange rate.

Yeah, he seems to be a bit simple. But not like a criminal. Plus, he doesn’t have a motive to harm Draco. And he could give me a reason why he was down in the parking garage when we arrived there the other morning. It obviously wasn’t to try and snatch at an opportunity to sneak up on Draco. I’m going to double-check with Supplies, but I know they’ll confirm what Kendricks told me.

He’s charming, nice. I really don’t like him. He’s too muscly. His hands are paws, no, spades. He could do real harm with those hands.

And his hair is too sleek. Potion sleek.

Never trust a guy with perfect hair.

-

Professor Jenkins is at his desk reading in a thick book when I step into his office. His red hair is gleaming in the dim light of a single oil lamp. Small wonder his eyes are watering like they do if he doesn’t even use a decent reading light. When I say I’ve got a couple of questions for him, he tries to brush me off. Claims he’s got to attend to pressing matters. As if. All he’s been doing just now is catch up on his bloody reading.

“Professor Jenkins. Draco Malfoy has been repeatedly ill over the last weeks. What do you have to say about that.”

He purses his lips.

“It’s too bad, that's what I've got to say. I need him on the job." He shuts his book and sends it to the bookcase on the opposite wall with a short flick of his wand. The book is so fat it's got trouble staying airborne during its short flight and edging itself back into its space on the crammed top shelf. "Auror Potter, are you now suggesting I'm poisoning my own intern? Or have you simply come here to threaten me some more about exploiting him? I guess it was you who set the works council on us?”

I choose not to comment on that, I just keep fixating him, brows raised.

“Well, I’m not forcing him to work all those extra hours, believe it or not,” he says. “Mr. Malfoy is very driven. I couldn’t stop him from doing his research if I tried to.” He chuckles in a way that can only be described as fondly. Then he focusses his swimming gaze on me again. “You should know that, shouldn’t you. You’re his life partner, aren’t you?”

I don’t know if I’m Draco’s life partner, but it’s definitely a rare thing that a wizard of Jenkins’ age would use that term. The correct term. If it is correct in our case. It's definitely a point in his favour. Sure, this kind of thing should be normal, with this being times of tolerance and gay marriage being legally recognized and everything, but the fact is, it's not, and I find myself finding the sight of Jenkins drying his teary eyes with his wand yet again just this tiny bit less repulsive.

Would he poison Draco? Use him as a lab rat? Does he want him or his ground wings in his supply cabinet?

It doesn’t seem likely.

But then you never know with potions guys.

-

That night Draco confronts me, seething. Kendricks told him about my visit, and Draco put two and two together.

“What were you thinking, pulling something like that, Harry! Treating my boss like a murder suspect! Jenkins is a brilliant guy, and all he’s interested in is his work! And Sam is cool, too. He’d never harm anyone. All he wants is go to SF! Do you realize how you’ve embarrassed me with the whole thing? And then to make me sit through two full hours of those stupid questions from that works council lady!”

I try to interrupt him, but he won’t let me.

“Seriously, Harry, I don’t care for you doing this kind of shit. You know what? I think working as an Auror has messed with your head. Or maybe it’s your whole personal history. Like having to deal with a new villain every single school year and stuff. You’ve got to start to learn that not every situation is about defeating some evil, plotting enemy, okay?”

He’s pacing the kitchen like the very first night we spent together in my flat. Only then he was confiding his troubles to me, and seeking my help. Trusting me. Now he looks like he’d like to rip me to pieces.

“It’s important for me that this internship works out! I think you don’t get it. You think it’s just an underpaid job in unpleasant surroundings. And that I’m doing it because I’m related to house elves and like to be told what to do and to scrub things. But that’s not it, okay?”

Again, I try to stop his outburst, but he shakes his head.

“We are onto something big, see? Something really big. That potion Jenkins is working on, it's a cure for residual effects of dark magic. Well, he gave me free reign to experiment with it. The problem is that its main ingredient is in extremely limited supply, and just recently I had this idea how to deal with that. It was inspired by a science article I had come across on the Muggle net, dealing with something called polymerase chain reaction, and... anyway, it seems to be working out. I can’t tell you more at the moment, but there’s been a major breakthrough. All this is of considerable personal interest to me, see?”

“Because of your heart,” I whisper.

“Because of those bouts of breathing trouble, if you must know. That’s got nothing to do with you cursing me with Sectumsempra and me not being the athlete I used to be. And I’m not infected with anything, either. Sorry, I disagree with your mop-haired friend.”

I’ve told him I had Hermione examine him the last time he fell sick, and although he didn’t remember anything about it, he took the information in his stride. All he seemed to really care for was that she didn’t get to see his wings. I just wish he’d come round to be as cool and forgiving now.

“I know she’s good and everything,” he goes on, “but what’s happening to me doesn’t look like what a bug would do, does it. You know I do believe my father’s old curses might still be affecting me, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But you said you started to feel sick in your sixth year. That’s when I hit you with Sectumsempra and damaged your heart…”

“It’s also when my father went to Azkaban and started to have Crabbe hex me.”

“But...”

“Okay, let’s stop this. All I want to say is my work is really important to me. And it’s not only that I have these personal hopes concerning the Light drops. Potions is my thing. I want to make a name for myself in the field. Okay? So, please Harry. Don’t mess with my job.”

Humbled, I apologize, and promise to stay away from his work place in the future. After all he’s just told me, what else can I say? Even if he just gave me another motive why his boss might be wanting to kill him. If Draco solved a major problem with a potion that Jenkins has been working on for thirty years, Jenkins might very well be wanting to get rid of him so he'll be able to reap the benefits all by himself once that potion hits the shops. Only Draco doesn't want to see that, because he's part of Jenkins' team, and loyal to a fault. Of course Draco might have a point with what he said about my personal history; me getting confronted with a plotting enemy every school year. Maybe I did develop a penchant for paranoia because of that.

I’ll still keep my map.


	27. Metamorphosis

Friday night. I’m late for after-work drinks, had to catch up on my reading. Interrogation transcripts. Such a bore. Nobody would ever want to be an Auror if they knew there’s such a thing as interrogation transcripts. When I slump down at our table in the Flying Pumpkin, Ron and Hermione are busy quarrelling.

Apparently Ron gave Ginny’s current suitor a black eye by making him look through Ron’s telescope during one of Ginny’s Quidditch matches. I know that telescope; it’s one of the bestsellers from George’s shop and punches you in the eye when you try to adjust the lens.

“Why would you do that, Ron? Why would you?”

“Why would he pinch my sister’s ass at half-time for everybody to watch on the big screen!”

“Never mind your sister’s ass! You’re going to get fired if you go on like this!”

“I won’t, I hit the guy with a forgetting spell afterwards,” Ron says smugly.

“But that’s even worse, you dickhead!” Hermione shrieks.

“Isn’t it legit to watch out for one’s family or what,” Ron retorts pompously. Hermione gives me a roll-eye that nearly dislodges her eye sockets, then ostentatiously pulls her chair around so she faces me, and Ron faces her back.

“Listen, Harry, I’ve dug up some highly interesting extra details on fairy-elf breeding. One of Portuba Muff’s early articles. Found it in an old edition of the Journal of Magical Beings.”

“Maybe some other time...” I say. I don’t want to discuss Portuba Muff’s findings on fairy-elf breeding in front of Ron. But Hermione doesn’t get that.  

“Okay. What she writes is that in spite of their male assets, the fairy-elves of Middle Earth had ovaries connected to the rectum. During intercourse the eggs got inseminated, then went to a special pouch off the rectal canal where they stayed for a few weeks to grow.”

“Are you seriously going to treat us to a lecture about male pregnancy?” Ron says, sounding almost as desperate as I feel. Hermione shakes her head vigorously.

“Pregnancy isn’t the adequate term in the context, Ron. Portuba Muff speaks of a special process related to metamorphosis. See, the eggs had to be pushed out before they got too big to fit through the anal passage. The fairy-elves stuck them under leaves in the undergrowth and left them there to ripe into larvae that would ultimately develop into fully-grown babies.”

Ron coughs wildly. When he’s done, he says, “Can we stop talking about Malfoy shitting extra big poo, then sticking it places in the garden you don’t see until it’s too late? Just so you know, Harry, I’m not gonna come help you with the weeding in your front garden when you’ve settled down with your little butterfly.”

I get up and hit him square in the face, right across the table. He spits out a gallon of blood and two teeth. It’s not enough. 

I’ve never been this mad at Ron in my life. I could kill him.

Hermione wriggles her tiny body between us, trying to shield Ron.

“Harry, cut it out! Stop it, now!” she cries.

She saves Ron’s life like that, I swear. She sees when I’ve regained control.

“Harry, really,” she says, sitting down and smoothing her hair and picking up a stray tooth from the blood-spattered table top. “You’ve never been like that. You’ve totally changed.”

Perhaps I should say something, try to defend myself. Apologize. But instead I just squeeze myself through the audience that has gathered around our table and get outside.

She’s right. I’ve never known this kind of madness. I’ve always been cool with Ron’s jibes about my sexuality. But this wasn’t about me, this was about Draco, and I won’t ever allow anyone to vilify him, not Ron, not anyone. He’ll recover from the blow. He’ll get a new pair of incisors. His fiancée is the daughter of two fucking dentists.

He’ll recover, and he’ll understand. This is about family loyalty after all, and it’s the one thing he believes in. He’s just not used to seeing me act on it. And Hermione isn’t, either. She’s right, I’ve never been like that. Because I’ve never had a family. But I have one now.

I have one now.


	28. An old-fashioned cabinet

When we sit on the couch in the evenings, I’m permanently erect. It’s not exactly what you’d call unwind. It can’t be helped. I’ve got to respect his boundaries. He asked me to.

The other day I tried to find out why he always shuts me out like he does. I know he likes me. I’ve caught him looking at me with his eyes full of stars dozens of times now. It can only mean one thing, really. And he must know what he is to me. I’ve never told him, I’m too chicken-hearted for that kind of declaration it seems. But I haven’t been able to hide my need to protect him, have I. Not even close. And even if I don’t have fairy genes that can make my eyes sparkle like the Milky Way, at least part of my feelings must reflect in my gaze, too, whenever it comes to rest on him.

A couple of times lately I’ve tried to move things forward between us. Like catch his starry glance and answer it with a lazy bedroom smile. But each time I did that, he literally ran from the room. I’ve got no idea why he would do that. And the desire to get past this something that’s keeping us apart made me do what I did.

The other night when I was at my desk in the living room, going over a couple of interrogation transcripts I had brought home from work because I simply don’t seem to be able to ever get finished with those, I realized he was observing me. I knew the stars were there in his eyes, I can feel them on me by now. So I did it, I tried to read his mind. I know it was wrong, but I was just growing desperate.

I never really got in. I had only just touched the outskirts of his mind when I was like blinded. His consciousness radiated an emotion of such clarity it was like looking into the sun. I retreated and had to give my own mind a couple of seconds to recover. Then I cautiously extended my consciousness again. But when I tried to get close to his, that blinding light was gone. I found myself like groping about in a wall of thick fog. It made me turn around in my seat to check if he was still in the room with me.

He met my gaze squarely, sternly, all stars gone.

“Don’t do that again, Harry,” he said. I stuttered an apology, until he said, “I know I told you to try your Legilimency skills on me, but I was having an honest competition in mind, not an ambush.”

And when I apologized some more, he said, “It’s okay, just respect my boundaries?”

Like a question. It made me feel like a rapist.

So that’s what I’ve been doing since then, sit next to him on my couch in the evenings and respect his boundaries. It’s hard though. Pun intended.

He knows what’s going on with me. He doesn’t need any Legilimency to read me, not with the way I’ve got to adjust my sweat pants all the time. We’ve talked about it a couple of times, if briefly. He said he didn’t like the idea he was making me uncomfortable. I told him it was cool and it was my problem.

When we have the same conversation tonight, he doesn’t nod to that like he did before. Instead, he offers me a blowjob.

He offers me a blowjob.

I’m not one of those scumbags who’d have Summoned Fairyboy, I should say no, but I can’t. Not when I’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks. Years, really. But I can’t just say okay, fine, either, can I.

“I don’t know...”

“Come on, stud. Show me what you got.”

Okay. Fine.

When I pull my sweatpants and boxers down, my cock flexes forward like a living thing jumping for a treat. Draco throws me one of his trademark smirks before he pulls his legs up to kneel next to me. He bends his head over my lap. When I feel his mouth take me in and his tongue give my shaft the first lap, I almost come right then.

Having Malfoy suck me off is just one crazy fantasy. Yes, I’m calling him that in my head for a moment, then I stop thinking as bursts of pleasure pulse through my groin. Godric, this is one hell of a blowjob. It’s so intense I forget everything. Including boundaries. I put both my hands on him, one on the erection under his pyjama bottoms, the other on his ass. The cotton fabric of his trousers seems to be damp from precome everywhere. His cheeks are firm and fleshy. He feels so good. I squeeze him, then shove my hand under his waistband. My cock springs from his lips, he gives a shocked gasp, but I don’t really hear it. I pull him on top of me. He tries to free himself, but I don’t let him. Exposing him and making him straddle me, I curl one hand around his cock and put the other between his cheeks. Godric, he feels so fucking great, smooth and slick all over, like sweaty. His cock leaks a sort of goldenish slime, and when I put a fingertip to his entrance, the same stuff squirts forth from there. I see it when I pull my hand from his crack to check. When I lick the shining juice off my fingers, it’s sweet and spicy, like a mix of forest honey and sperm, and I know it’s fairy precome. He’s producing precome front and back. It’s so insanely hot I explode against his stomach before I can even think about getting into him. My spunk spreads over both our groins, his one hairless ivory, mine all red flesh and coarse black curls. Only when I’m spent and look into his eyes again, my breath still coming in gasps and groans, I see that he’s close to tears.

-

I’ve said sorry like a million times over. He has gone to take a shower. Now he sits next to me on the couch again, at a distance of a foot, and in two pairs of pyjama bottoms. I’ve got the suspicion he did the adhesive hex, Secunda Cutis, too. I say sorry again. He shakes his head.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not! I was way out of line, doing that to you. I know you aren’t ready, and we don’t even know if sex is a hazard for your heart...”

He shakes his head again, more vigorously.

“That’s bullshit. That’s not why I... Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry, it’s not you who did anything wrong...”

“Please don’t talk about it. Please?”

“I won’t. Just... I just want you to know I think everything about you is perfection.”

He listens to that declaration, not showing a reaction. But he doesn’t move away.

“I do, Draco, and I want you so much. You know I do.”

He’s still looking down, but from the side, it looks like he’s smiling a very tiny smile.

“Give me a little more time, Harry?”

I say I will, I swear to him I will. And I ask him to let me touch him again, no private parts, just cuddling. So I know nothing’s broken between us.

He nods and I put my arm around his shoulder. Carefully, I pull him in and start stroking his wings. He accepts the caress, and after two minutes or so, his left wing lifts for an inch, allowing me access to the sensitive underside and the small cavity between his wing joint and his shoulder blade.

And I know that even if he wouldn't let me pleasure him tonight, one of these days, it’s going to happen.

-

“What’s this?”

Coming into the kitchen from the living room, Draco walks up to where I’ve just started clearing the dinner table. He’s got something in his hand, and when he thrusts his arm forward to push it into my face, I see it’s my map. The Ministry’s Map. It’s still in magnifying mode, showing the rooms and hallways of the Potions Section.

“That’s how you knew I had left the lab the other day? You’ve been stalking me?”

Technically, I still do. I pull the map from his hand.

“How did you get that map, Draco.”

“I was looking for the Y-pad in the cabinet and found that map in a drawer, that’s how, Auror Potter,” he snaps.

He doesn’t even know that’s not supposed to work. He doesn’t know my cabinet is a safe that only opens to me. That’s why I keep the map in there. Kept the map in there.

“Okay, get me a tissue from the cabinet. Second drawer from the top on the left,” I say.

“What’s a tissue,” he asks, confused.

“A throw-away handkerchief,” I say. “Muggles use them. Haven’t you seen those little boxes in the drugstore?”

“You stalk me, and now you think you can avoid talking about it by ordering me around and making me get you a handkerchief?”

“I hexed the tissues so they heal small wounds. I got a cut. Got it on the job today,” I say, showing him a cut in my palm I just gave myself with the pizza knife for the purpose.

“Oh, Harry,” he says, looking at the small trickle of blood in my hand with concern. “Oh Harry, I so hate that kind of thing. I hate you getting hurt.” He sighs and puts the map on the table. “I guess I shouldn’t be mad at you for watching out for me. I’d do the same thing for you if I could. Sorry for shouting at you?”

I feel really bad about my little trick. But as he walks over to the cabinet, I hold my breath, nearly bursting with curiosity.

The tissue drawer opens without the slightest hitch.

-

Saturday afternoon. Ron is at the door. I’m absurdly relieved Draco went out to the drugstore to stock up on shampoo and hair gel yet again. Probably eyeliner, too.

It turns out Hermione sent Ron over to collect some of the old wooden farm animals that I found in Sirius’ cabinet when I first checked through it.

“What on earth does she need those ancient toys for?” I ask.

“No idea,” he says sullenly. His speech is indistinct. He’s wearing a plastic prosthesis where his front teeth should be, and it doesn’t really fit. I know Hermione's stand on magical dental treatments. Quick and easy, but no lasting quality. There's nothing like Muggle odontotherapy when it comes to sustainable results, I've heard her preach on that often enough. It's obvious Ron wasn't given much choice in the matter, and I get why he isn't in the mood for talking.

I think I know why Hermione made him come to my flat to get those cows and sheep, though. We haven’t seen each other since our fight in the Flying Pumpkin, and she wants us to get back to normal. It comes in pretty handy, actually. Welcoming Ron in as warmly as I can, I take him into the living room and point at Sirius’ cabinet.

“All the toys are in the bottom drawer. Take what you need.”

“I can’t open that cabinet, you know that,” he grumbles.

“Please try?”

“Why?”

“To humour me?”

“Why would I want to humour you,” he says, but he does as asked. The drawer doesn’t open. I make him try the others, too, but the cabinet doesn’t allow him access. Like it’s supposed to.

In the end, I open the toy drawer myself. When Ron leaves with a bag full of bleating sheep and mooing cows with missing ears and tails, he’s even more pissed at me than he was.

-

A couple of days later, Draco is just down in the drugstore again, Hermione drops by with the news that Draco’s smear test didn’t yield any results indicating dark magic, so her diagnosis stands confirmed.

I use the opportunity to ask her to bring me a spell book from the cabinet.

“That’s Sirius’ cabinet,” she says.

“I know. The book is right there, in the glass case.”

She sits down, ignoring my request, eying me.

“Can Malfoy open your cabinet?” she says.

“He can, and I don’t understand why,” I say, accepting it’s pointless to try to be clever with her.

“Okay. Some antiquities, like your cabinet, bear carvings that make them reserve the right to open them to their owner. It’s a long-lost craft that makes these objects priceless.”

“Alright, I know all that...”

“Spouses,” Hermione continues, her voice raised, “spouses are by and large considered to have the right of usage concerning objects in the shared living area. Apparently your cabinet takes Draco for your legal spouse.”

I’m speechless.

Hermione grins devilishly.

“The question we’ve got to ask ourselves is, could it be the two of you have been engaging in activities here in the living room that might appear like marital behaviour to a simple-minded, old-fashioned piece of magical furniture?”

“Ron seems out of sorts lately. Don’t you think he has been acting different? I mean even before he lost those teeth? Like really strung up, you know. Lashing out at people for no reason. I’ve been wondering why. Everything alright between the two of you?”

It is a bit mean of me to use this, but it works. She bites her lip and stops talking about questions that need to be asked.


	29. The Sacred Twenty-Seven

The Malfoys have been officially removed from the list of the Sacred Twenty-eight last night. It’s now the list of the Sacred Twenty-seven.

Of course the list isn’t really official, not anymore. But it’s still out there. Someone is hosting a site with the list, has made it accessible for every regular Y-pad, and they took the trouble of updating it.

And anyone who’s heard the rumours about Draco, anyone who takes and interest in these things, will have checked the list.

Like I did.

I knew it was going to happen, and it was still a shock to see the new caption, The Sacred Twenty-seven.

I can only imagine what kind of day Lucius Malfoy is having.

Even if he doesn’t own a Y-Pad because it’s modern filth, he’ll still know about that new number. It’s the one thing of interest to him, after all.

I don’t bring up what happened when I meet Draco by the fountain in the Ministry lobby that night, but I can tell he knows. He misses the flirty smile Reuben flashes his way when we pass his booth. Normally I’d gloat about that with petty schadenfreude, but tonight I’m just worried. I don’t want Draco to be too preoccupied to flirt with Reuben, or bite his lip in that distressed way.

“You know what I’d really like to do tonight? Get a pile of pizza and watch recaps of Waltzing Wizards all night through,” I say brightly. The smile that gets me is small but real.

“Sorry, I’ve already made plans for tonight. Marcus called and asked me to grab a drink with him. Obviously I would have loved it so much better to make you sit through hours of Waltzing Wizards. I do appreciate your readiness for self-sacrifice. I’ve said it before, you truly are hero material, Harry Potter.”

I can’t smile back. Marcus Flint, again? He reads my thoughts.

“He heard about the list, you know. He said he was sure having some fun would help, and that he wanted to take a stand, show his support and stuff. I had to say yes.”

I guess. I still hate it. I don’t trust Marcus Flint.

And then there’s Lucius Malfoy, obviously.

“What if your father tracks you down,” I say. “Seriously, I’m not okay with you going out tonight. It’s a safe guess that your father is out of his mind with fury right now. What if he somehow finds you and does something to you?”

“He won’t. He won’t risk trying to Avada Kedavra me in a public place.”

“He could always hire a killer!”

“You don’t get him, Harry. Hiring someone to have me killed in a bar means he’s got a good chance at getting arrested, and he knows that. My father will never risk being sent back to Azkaban, or sullying our name by being sentenced for murder. All he wants is keep the Malfoy name clean. Be the great Lucius Malfoy of Malfoy manor.”

“I guess you’re right. But still, Draco. Please stop meeting Flint.”

“I told him it’s the last time, okay? I told him I’ve got loads to do, which is nothing less than the truth anyway. So I won’t see him again after tonight. Consoled?”

-

“You don’t get him.”

The sentence goes round and round in my head after Draco has Disapparated from the flat. If that’s true, if I don’t get Lucius Malfoy, I’ve got to try harder. As an Auror I’m trained at analysing a suspect’s mind to guess at their next move. And no matter what Draco said, his father is a suspect. Because if what my gut tells me is right, he won’t accept being kicked from the ranks of pureblood aristocracy without a fight. Which means I need to figure out what he’s going to do. And quickly.

So, Lucius Malfoy. What do I know about Lucius Malfoy.

He has always negated his own non-human heritage. He was obsessed with blood purity and unable to accept a part-fairy son. He tried to keep Draco’s transformation at bay using dark magic that made his son sick. When he was in Azkaban, he used Crabbe, Crabbe who was permanently around Draco, who had Draco’s trust. That’s Lucius Malfoy’s style. Just like when he sneaked Tom Riddle’s diary into Ginny’s trunk in our second year. Subterfuge, pulling strings, using others for his own ends.

Later, he made Draco come back to Malfoy Manor claiming he needed his help. He understood Draco’s sense of loyalty, and he took advantage of it so he could go on casting curses at his son. Until Draco fled to London to try and build an independent life for himself.

Then, when Draco returned again, fully transformed and seeking shelter at the place that should have been his home, his father did the unforgivable, he attacked his own son with Sectumsempra to keep his fairy genes a secret. And he failed.

No Slytherin deals well with failure, and Lucius Malfoy certainly is no exception. And most certainly not in this particular case.

What if Lucius Malfoy has moved past making sense?

What if he is ready to face any risk just to still get at Draco? What if it’s his last goal in life to destroy the son who made the Malfoy name disappear from the list of the Sacred Twenty-eight?

I get my Y-pad to look at the list again, as if the answers lay in there.

What if. What if.

What if he’d even find himself ready to renounce his traditionalist ways for the goal of making his son disappear off the face of the earth and use something like a Y-pad?

Every Y-pad has a registration number that’s kept on file in the Ministry. All data about Y-pad activities get stored there, too. The guys working in the Y-Mac Department can extract those data, and they do, if they have a court order to do so.

Or, in case they are my generation, if Harry Potter asks them to.

-

For once, I’ve been lucky. There was still someone at his desk in YD, he answered my Video Phono call, and he wasn’t a teen. My name worked its old magic.

Now I have a comprehensive list of all the search requests before me that have ever been conducted on Lucius Malfoy’s Y-pad, sent by express owl directly from the Ministry.

Yeah, Lucius Malfoy does possess a Y-pad after all. And he has made use of it. There’s a lot of visits on sites with illegal content about plans to re-establish the old system. A lot of porn, too, involving school girls. And repeated views of Hermione’s picture as class winner in the old Hogwarts’ year books. Yeah, Lucius Malfoy is obviously a fully-fledged pervert, but that’s not the worst thing about this list.

The worst thing is, I was right about him.

All these weeks he has been trying to kill his son. It’s because of Lucius Malfoy that Draco fell sick like he did. I don’t yet know how his father did it. But the endless search requests on the Muggle internet for anti-moth sprays and their mode of action are proof enough. He has looked up all the sites on insecticides. When I get my own Y-pad to check out one of those sites, on something called organophosphates, it’s right there.

The poison affects the respirational tract and the nervous system, leading to nausea, fatigue, and later to breathing paralysis.

Draco’s symptoms, to the letter.

But Lucius Malfoy never went near Draco since he moved in with me. What am I missing here.

As I go over the text describing the effects of organophosphates again, something flits about at the edges of my mind, like that black mouse in the Potions Section. Without really knowing what I’m looking for, I log myself into the Ministry’s database.

Marcus Flint. Background and bio.

Pureblood, Slytherin, Quidditch captain, blahblah. His criminal record.

And that job at Azkaban. He’s been working as a janitor in Azkaban.

I check the dates.

Why is it that I’ve never checked the dates before!

Oh Merlin.

Flint worked as a janitor in Azkaban from August 1st till September fifteenth. He worked there the night I saved Draco from the Dementor.

Suddenly everything is horribly clear.

Flint freed that Dementor and set it on Draco.

Flint works for Lucius Malfoy like Crabbe did before him, only he wasn’t hired to jinx Draco but to kill him.

Flint probably got impatient and tried to get the job done quickly with the help of a Dementor that night in September. And when the Dementor failed to do the job, Flint went back to using the method Lucius Malfoy had recommended.

Taking advantage of Draco’s sense of loyalty towards a supportive friend, getting him to join him for a drink as often as it would take, and each time poisoning him some more with a spray that looks like a perfectly harmless deodorant and yet will eventually kill him.

Because it really is an insecticide, and Draco is a fairy half-breed.


	30. Fairy magic

They are sitting in a corner behind the billiard tables. I spot them the moment I step through the Flying Pumpkin’s front door.

A small fat wizard in security uniform moves into my way.

“Wand, mister.”

“Sorry, just let me in, okay?”

“Wand, mister,” he repeats, this time letting his own wand pirouette in his pudgy right hand in an unmistakable warning.

“Let me through, I’m Harry Potter!”

Just three years back, that line would have gotten me into any vault at Gringott’s. But the guy doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Everyone leaves their wand in our wand safe, mister. House rules. You want to get in, you hand over your wand.”

From what I can see from where I’m standing, Draco is in no immediate danger. They seem to just have ended a game of billiard, and Draco is busy explaining the tactics he employed to win, judging from his animated gesturing with his wand cue. Flint doesn’t seem to have his spray on him. There’s no sight of the can, and that sweet smell isn’t hanging in the air, either. It’s just wafts of troll sweat that tickle my nose. So I can relax for the moment and take my time to make up my mind about the best course of action.

How do I get in there without Flint noticing and trying to get away? I want to deal with this once and for all, and that means I mustn’t let him escape. It’s obvious I’d need back-up for that. And an official warrant to get past this presumptuous security guy. But it would take much too long to call my colleagues and organize a raid, and maybe the Minister wouldn’t even give us the green light for taking Marcus Flint into custody. The evidence against him is rather flimsy after all; I haven’t yet got any proof for what I know to be true. He did try to kill Draco with those poison vapours, even though he is behaving in the most regular manner right now. Where is that spray can? Has he stopped with what he set out to do to Draco for some reason?

I take a step back from the security guy and take out my wand to use it as a telescope. I need to get a closer look at what’s going on to decide what's the most intelligent strategy now.

Flint has walked over to the counter and ordered two bacon butterbeers with the same booming voice he used to use for shouting abuse at people on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. When the barmaid places the mugs before him, he busies himself for a while with placing them on a tray. I can’t see what his problem is because his broad back blocks my view. Maybe he’s already too drunk to handle beer mugs. When he walks back over to where Draco is sitting, there’s not the slightest sway to his step, though.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s clear what’s happening. Flint is trying to make Draco take one of the mugs, and Draco tries to decline without hurting his feelings. He told me he hates flavoured butterbeer, and I’m sure he told Flint the same. So why would Flint try that hard to force that beer on him? It’s obvious Flint isn’t ready to take no for an answer. Shit, what’s the guy's deal?

As I adjust the magical lens on my wand, it suddenly zooms in on something white on Flint’s creasy robe front. A whitish powder. I’m positive it wasn’t there a couple of minutes back when Flint walked up to the bar.

I don’t know what that means, but I have decided on what I’ll do. I won’t enter into a duel with the security guy and raise Flint’s attention, I’ll go for the surprise effect instead and rely on my Krav Maga skills.

I drop my wand into the compartment of the wand safe the security guy has pointed out to me and enter the pub. Keeping to the walls, I silently move up to the billiard tables.

Flint is still holding out the beer mug to Draco. And I understand that there can only be one reason for that the same moment Draco takes the mug from Flint’s hand. He doesn’t want to disappoint an old mate. Gulping down a mug of bacon butterbeer is not that much of a sacrifice when it comes to tell an old mate a final goodbye. That’s what he’d say. That’s who he is. And that’s what his fiend of a father is counting on.

“Stop! Put that mug down, Draco!” I cry.

He’s dumbfounded to see me, but he does what I say, he puts the mug onto a table next to him, his eyes never leaving my face, his expression one big question. Flint throws me a crazed look and grabs him by the shoulders in furious frustration.

“Come on, don’t be a pussy, drink your beer, Malfoy!”

Draco tries to get up from his chair, but Flint won’t let him. Draco struggles against his grip, shock and understanding etching themselves into his features. I’ve got to take Flint down so he’ll never touch Draco again, but I can’t attack as long as he has his hands on Draco.

“Let him go, Flint!”

He doesn’t do it, he stands like immobilized, clutching Draco’s shoulders. He’s not the brightest person on the planet, he’s got trouble processing what’s going on, but it can’t be long before he’ll understand I’m no threat at all if he simply keeps holding on to Draco.

“Take your hands off him, Flint, or everyone will think you’re trying to make him date you!”

That does the trick, that makes him do what I want at last. Releasing Draco with an animal growl, he stomps up to me, fists balled, eyes drawn to slits, ready to do his troll thing.

I let my body careen against his full force so he topples over and we crash into the billiard tables. Wand cues are set flying, and about twenty balls start to jump about in a crazy dance, hitting people’s heads and smashing glasses.

I roll across the floor, wrestling with Flint, and using every mean kick and hit my Krav Maga trainer at the Auror Department ever showed me. Flint has clearly never had a lesson in combat sports, but he’s freakishly strong. Troll strong. And troll resilient, too. I manage to pull his head back full force a couple of times, a move that can break a regular person’s neck. But when I use it yet another time on Flint, and with the honest intention to kill, he just shakes himself, then grabs his beer mug from the floor and hits me over the head with it. Before I can recover, he has me in a headlock. Fuck. Where the fuck is that security guy.

There, someone is coming up from behind Flint. But it isn’t the security guy, it’s Draco. I try to will him to stay away. He’s so fragile, Flint could squash him with one hand. Close to panicking now, I fight with renewed vigour. Flint hits me over the head with his mug again, then he closes a fist around my throat and starts choking me. My reflex is to react with Stupefy, but of course I haven't got my wand. I shouldn't have left my wand with that fucking guy from security. For fuck's sake, where is he. I kick both my heels into Flint's shins and try to get my fist around his little finger. I actually manage to do that, and there's an ugly snap as I dislocate it. But instead of releasing me, Flint just roars with fury and tightens his grip on my throat. My vision blurs. I hear screams like from a far-away galaxy. I get afraid for the first time. This is serious. Fuck. Fuck, I came here to save Draco’s life, now I might die trying. The irony. Draco will laugh at me. I hear him. But he isn’t laughing, he’s crying. It’s such a desperate, lost sound it makes me muster my last ounces of strength. Aiming at Flint’s solar plexus, I ram my elbow backwards full force. I’ve already used the move half a dozen times on him by now, to no effect. It doesn’t make sense to even try again.

But for some reason, this time is different. Flint’s paws go limp around my throat. And he stops embracing me. Suddenly I can see again, I see him stumble backwards, away from me.

I see the security guy, too. He's still at the front door, pretending to be occupied. Crowded by a couple of agitated patrons, he turns around, and on seeing Flint close to knocked out fires a half-assed Stunning Spell at him. But Flint is getting back to his feet already and easily dodges it. He might be all kinds of stupid and ugly, but he’s got his skills.

And he’s got a sensitive spot, too. People stand in a half circle, the way they do when there’s a bar brawl. I only now fully realize we have a really big audience, and Flint does, too.

He looks about, then takes a step back and spits out, sending a slob of snot to the floor in a show of pure male chauvinism.

“I never tried to date the dirty fairy, okay? I tried to kill it because its father paid me good money for it, that’s what I was after! Nothing else! I’m not a bloody poof!”

And on that, he storms out.

No one holds him back. I don’t hold him back. I try to, but there’s simply not enough blood in my brain for action. I can’t move a muscle, and my head feels like it’s going to split in half. All I can do is trying to spot Draco from where I’m lying on the floor.

“Harry!”

There he is. Breaking to his knees by my side, his face streaked with tears. He’s holding his palms up. It’s a peculiar gesture, it looks like he’s been gathering cosmic energy or something.

And that’s exactly what he did, I realize. I don’t know how, but somehow he caused Flint to let go of me just now. Somehow he saved my life.

I scramble to my knees to sit on my haunches and pull him into an embrace when I see the sick pallor of his face. He’s struggling for breath, shit, that's hyperventilating.

“Draco! You didn’t drink from that mug, did you? Did you?”

“I didn’t, I’m okay. But you...”

“You didn’t drink that beer.”

He puts his hands on my arm, still gasping with every breath he takes.

“No, Harry, I'm fine, you hear me?”

“But you’re not breathing normally,” I croak, struggling against the newly rising panic.

“That’s nothing, you know I get that arrhythmia thing under stress. It’s just that, okay? Now tell me, everything alright with you?”

"Yeah, yeah, love. Just need you to be safe. "

He smiles shakily and nods and shakes his head at the same time, then closes his eyes to get his breathing back under control. And it's slowing down, it's evening out. I hold on to him, trying to comfort him, or myself, or both. 

“Need any help, Sir?”

A man in a uniform. DLE. Someone called them. Draco looks up at the officer, and I can see the colour has come back to his cheeks.

“No, thanks, everything is okay,” he says. And the truth finally sinks into my muddled brain.

Thank Godric.

Everything is okay.

-

“How did you do it, Draco?”

“I don’t know. It was like with the Dementor. And when my father attacked me with Sectumsempra. Apparently I can work a kind of protective magic when I’m really scared. Just for a short period of time, but still. I’ve come to think it must be a fairy thing. An ancient relic of their magic that doesn’t require the use of a wand, you know? Perhaps with them being forest creatures, it was like their bodies were their wands or something.”

I nod in awe.

We are back home. Sitting on the couch like on just another regular night. The DLE took over at the Flying Pumpkin, questioning witnesses, trying to gather clues where Flint went off to.

“Isn’t it true that you were able to ward off jinxes non-verbally already back in the sixth year?” I ask. “Can it be that that was already your special magic as a fairy manifesting itself?”

“Might be,” he says, sounding tired. He has lost all his bounce now that he knows what Flint was up to. And that his father was behind it all. He didn’t even protest when I asked him to come along with me to St. Mungo’s for a blood test before we went home.

It was like I had expected. There were remnants of organophosphates in his blood. The doctor gave him a shot with an antidote, assured us he’d be fine, and ordered him to avoid exposure to insecticides for the rest of his life. Draco is smoothing down the sheet with the lab results in his hands, rereading it for the hundredth time.

“You were right. Man, I’d never have believed it. He has really been trying to poison me all this time, at my father’s command. That’s why he used to take me places where nobody would know us, and gave me Polyjuice Potion to make sure no one would remember me. And when that spray didn’t work, and I told Marcus I wouldn’t go out with him again, my father had him get that powder into my drink.” He shakes his head. “That’s why Marcus insisted on the bacon flavour. I wouldn’t have noticed the weird taste. You say that beer would have killed me within twenty-four hours?”

I just nod. No need to tell him how.

I called Ron before we left the Flying Pumpkin, I wanted him personally to confiscate Draco’s mug as evidence. Thankfully it didn’t get thrown over during my fight with Flint. When Ron showed up, I told him to have its contents checked for Muggle insecticides and to call me the moment they had identified any suspicious substance.

Two hours later I had my wand blink with a voice message from Ron. I went into the bathroom to check it so Draco wouldn’t hear it. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the kind of news I’d want to share with him.

“Harry? They found something. Bacteria Thuringiensis. Seems to be a classical non-magical insecticide. I’m going to read to you what they write here, wait… Yeah. Once the bacteria have entered the insect’s intestines, they’ll destroy the cells lining the gut and create multiple lesions. The insect will suffer massive internal bleeding and will dissolve from the inside within twenty-four hours. Any fairy half-breed ingesting the substance in question is bound to suffer the same fate, and even immediate medical assistance won’t guarantee survival. Harry? You got that?”

Yeah, I got that. I only heard those sentences once, but I’ve known them by heart since, and they will haunt my dreams forever.

No, I can never tell Draco how exactly his father meant to murder him.

-

He has told me I’m his hero, again. Obviously I’m so not a hero, even less so than back when I defeated the Dark Lord.

It took me much too long to figure out what was going on. And all the time it was so painfully obvious. Lucius Malfoy planned to have Draco killed with Muggle insecticides so in case Draco’s death was investigated, no traces of dark magic would be found on his body. I told Draco myself once how wizard criminals use Muggle weaponry these days to stay undetected, and how we Aurors need to understand about Muggle technology to stay on top of the game and bring down modern day terrorists.

If I hadn’t found out at the last moment that old Lucius Malfoy wasn’t above using the Muggle net for his vile research, and Muggle poison to kill his son, he would have succeeded.

Draco would be dead, destroyed in the worst way imaginable. Like the vermin his father considers him to be.

God, I nearly let that happen.

And if it hadn’t been for Draco’s magic, Flint would have killed me, too, with a simple beer mug.

And to top things off, I let the guy escape.

No, so not the hero.


	31. Cutting the Cord

After a short night’s sleep, I get up, resolved to finally do what needs to be done and wrap this up. I’m going to hunt down Flint, and Lucius Malfoy, too.

Of course I expect Draco to try and stop me, and it’s exactly what he does.

“Don’t go after Flint. What’s the point? You’ve always resented doing a job that’s law enforcement, haven’t you. And this is classical law enforcement. Let the officers do their job.”

“And what if they don’t find him?”

“So what? He won’t come after me anymore now that he blew his own cover. It’s you who’s in danger now if you go after him! Don’t you understand? You called him gay in front of the whole pub, and that’s probably the worst thing anyone has ever done to him! He is that kind of guy, you know it! If he ever sees you again, he’ll want to hurt you in the worst way he can think of! Please, Harry, don’t do that to me.”

It’ll never stop to throw me when he lets his emotions show like this. When every single one of his words says just one thing, that he cares for me. It takes me a minute to collect my thoughts. Then I state the obvious.

“There’s still your father.”

“He’s even more dangerous than Flint, so leave him be!”

“I’m an Auror, and he’s a Death Eater who’s still active. Dealing with people like him is definitely not the DLE’s job, it’s mine. It’s what I’m trained for.”

“I know I can’t stop you from putting yourself on the line in your job. I accept it’s what you do. But I’m not going to lose you to my father.”

“And I won’t lose you to him! Or to Flint.”

He raises his hand to his chest and touches the spot where his father cut him with Sectumsempra. It’s what he always does when he’s thinking of his father.

“You won’t,” he says quietly.

“But…”

“Marcus hasn’t got any reason to go after me again if my father doesn’t pay him for his services anymore. And my father won’t do that.”

“You think he’ll give up persecuting you? He went out of his way to get to you, and now you believe he’ll just forget all about it?”

“He already has,” he says. “I took care of it.”

“But…”

“I took care of it, alright? I cut the cord.”

He Cut the Cord.

Of course he did.

The spell exists for children of fathers like his. But then it’s such a radical step to take I’ve never known anyone who’d actually have used the enchantment. Cutting the Cord.

A son or daughter can sever all ties to their parents with it, just by saying the words, I Cut the Cord. Those who do aren’t like orphans, it’s like they fell from the skies.

His father won’t try to harm him again, because Draco will forever be wiped from his mind. It’s like Lucius Malfoy never had a son. And not only in Lucius Malfoy’s mind, but in front of the law and society, too. That means the Malfoy name is back in the list of the Sacred Twenty-eight. It also means his father will never be brought to justice.

“Draco! Did you think this through? Everything he ever did in relation to you is like officially wiped from reality now. It means he won’t answer for what he did to you, he won’t serve time, and the world will never know how he wronged you! He’ll be able to walk with his head held high, and that’s just wrong in all possible ways! Your suffering should be recognized, and redeemed!”

“Harry. Your righteous indignation on my behalf is all the redemption I’ll ever need.”

It sounds like he’s mocking me even now. But I can sense his emotion, and it tells me he means every word. It’s obvious that he did think this through, and it’s not my place to argue with him about it.

But there’s yet another, more mundane aspect, and I can’t not say anything about it.

“You’re going to lose everything, Draco.”

And he will. He won’t inherit a Knut of the Malfoy family fortune. Malfoy Manor, the vast grounds, the village belonging to the estate, everything will fall to the crown. Along with everything that’s in the Malfoy vault at Gringott’s. He shrugs in that inimitably arrogant-looking way of his that spells pure boredom.

“It’s not my money.”

“It was going to be! It should! It’s your rightful heritage!”

“I’m going to survive. I’m good at potions. You said so yourself.”

“Of course, you’re right. Of course. Only it’s going to be hard, making your way without any family...”

“You got no family either. And you haven’t done that bad for a nobody.”

I don’t really register how he’s trying to provoke me.

He just said we were both the same because we both got no family.

_I could be your family. You could be mine._

After all we’ve been through, I don’t know why I still don’t dare say it out loud.

-

So it’s over. The danger has passed.

But I still don’t seem to be able to relax. That panicky feeling in my chest has stayed with me. It’s flaring up at unpredictable intervals, mostly by night, exactly like when my scar was hurting back in the days of Voldemort.

And that never once ended well.


	32. An engagement

Hermione has got scratch marks on her face and arms. And a golden ring on her left hand. She’s constantly making the ring sparkle so people look at it. It’s rather distracting when you talk to her. She claims she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but I know a Sparkle Hex when I see one. Magically affecting an opponent’s eye-sight is a common technique in duelling, after all.

She came to my office today to take me out to lunch. It’s the first time since forever. Hermione isn’t the type to go for lunch, she’s the type to have vegan wraps sent up to her office to save time. When I commented on that, she said she needed to hear everything about my fight with Marcus Flint. I didn’t buy it. I know her real design is to flash that new ring at me.

“Didn’t you tell me you don’t need that?” I say, gesturing at it. “What happened to out-of-date, and wrong on so many levels?”

She sighs.

“When I got home the other night, the whole flat was filled with red roses. Like really filled, from the floor to the ceiling, so you couldn’t move without getting scratches from the thorns and got petals in your mouth when you tried to speak. A Proposal Charm that got out of hand. It took Ron half an hour to find the spell book and make those flowers go away. Apparently he’d been thinking about the ultimate proposal for weeks. He was so depressed. You know Ron. Total blow to his self-esteem. What was I supposed to do?”

“Right, I get it, you had to say yes.”

“He didn’t ask, obviously, not after that disaster. You know Ron.”

“So...?”

“So I asked him, stupid. What was I supposed to do? Let him wallow in embarrassment for weeks? Let him try to work up the nerve to propose again for the rest of his life? And let him put this nice ring back on that Y-buy thing? I don’t think so.”

She flashes the ring so a ray of light hits me right in the eye. 

“Also, we want kids. And kids like it better when everyone in the family carries the same name.”

“Wow. So you’re going to be Professor Weasley?”

“No, why,” she asks, puzzled. Then she laughs. “Oh, I get it, how silly of me. No. It’s going to be Ronald Granger.” Again, she makes the ring sparkle, but suddenly there’s an even more irritating glow radiating from her eyes. “Ronald Granger,” she repeats, letting the syllables roll over her tongue in a way that makes me blush like a virgin. “Just the perfect name for a cop, don’t you think?”

-

So Ron has done it, he proposed. Or at least tried to.

The whole story goes to show that it doesn’t help to think too much about these things before doing them.

Not that it concerns me. I don’t believe in happy ever afters and the like personally, do I.

So it doesn’t make any sense that suddenly I’m permanently running proposal scenes through my head.

No sense at all.


	33. Names

 

We are on the couch, having our night cap, and I tell him about Ron and Hermione’s engagement, and Ron’s new name. He chuckles.

“She’s probably right about kids wanting everyone to share the same name, though,” he says.

“Is this you suggesting Malfoy Potter as our family name?” I joke.

He chuckles again, but the way he’s staring into his honey milk, blushing, tells me I wasn’t that far off the mark. Before I can think about the implications, he says, “You realize I can’t give you kids.”

I put my beer down.

“I never expected you to give me kids. Gay couples adopt. Or do the Elton John thing.”

“Gay couples,” he repeats after me, like a question.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling him in. For a short moment, he rests his silky head against my shoulder, and it feels like we just sealed a promise of our own. Then he asks, “So, what did this Elton John guy do.”

“He didn’t do anything yet. But there’s this prophesy saying he’ll use some kind of Muggle magic to father a child soon after his fiftieth birthday, so he and his husband will have their own family.”

“His fiftieth birthday?”

He looks so unhappy it makes me laugh.

“You really want those kids, don’t you, Draco.”

He shrugs, and for once, that trademark display of indifference of his is blatantly unconvincing.

“Draco? - Don’t tell me you’re already planning it, like thinking names, and... Godric, you’re already thinking names.”

“I thought it would be nice if we mixed our parents’ names. Like Lily Narcissa. Or James Lucius.”

That throws me off track.

“Seriously? Lucius? You’d want your father’s name for your son?”

He stirs some more honey into his milk, creating the usual mess on the couch table.

“It’s also my middle name,” he says quietly, then looks up at me with his eyes at their lightest grey. “I think it might help me deal with some of the breaches I’ve lived through lately. You know, those you can’t heal with a potion, or any magic. I have Cut the Cord to my father, but it’s still because of him that I am what I am. And Lucius means light. That’s beautiful, isn’t it.”

I can only nod.

“I also like Scorpius. Or Severus,” he adds. The suppressed eagerness simmering in his words is adorable. I look away to stop myself from imagining all the possible and impossible ways of knocking him up.

“Don’t freak out,” he says, misreading me. “It’s just… I never had any siblings. Growing up at Malfoy Manor really sucked, you know. All that gloom and empty space. I used to be crazy jealous of Ron Weasley. His big, noisy family.”

I only remember him smirking at Ron’s hand-me-downs. It’s so obvious to me now what he must have been feeling.

“Okay, part of the reason I hated him was the big family,” he corrects himself, looking down at his hands.

“Part of the reason,” I say, at a loss.

“Come on, Harry,” he says, turning to me with a lopsided grin. “Ron was your best friend, he was always with you. I was mad with jealousy already back that first day, when I saw the two of you had become friends on the Hogwarts Express. I tried to put you off him, which of course only put you off me, and then I fucked up worse and worse by the day. I just couldn’t deal. Fuck, I was sharing with Crabbe and Goyle, they were all I had by way of friends, and Ronald Weasley was sleeping in the bed next to yours!”

He shakes his head, smirking at his old, troubled self.

“Well, it’s probably a good thing I wasn’t in his place. I’d have spent every night beating off, I wouldn’t have been able to hold my wand in class!”

I laugh along with him.

But those names keep floating through my mind, along with images of Grimmauld Place reopened, renovated, and flooded with light and laughter.

Up to now, to me, fathers were either dead, like mine, or worse than the devil, like his. But we might be going to be fathers ourselves at some point in the future, and already the word is transforming in my head. Suddenly it’s ringing of challenge and the promise of a whole new kind of joy.


	34. Wings

It’s been a crazy day. I’ve been on the road from seven in the morning, camouflaged as the eighteen-year-old redhead who had her hair cut in the seat next to me at my hair-dresser’s last week. Before I left, my hair professionally flattened, I pretended I had to lace my shoe and collected one of her curls from the floor. Now my hair has still got a reddish hue and there’s freckles on my nose and no stubble on my jaw, in spite of the late hour. I’ve also got residual curves in the wrong places. Polyjuice Potion. I hate the stuff; it always leaves me kind of dizzy in the head. And it’s weird to be in the wrong body. I wonder if this is what Draco felt like when he Changed.

I tried to track down a suspect today. A guy dealing with illegal potions. The guys from Law Enforcement asked the Auror Department to fill in, again. It’s not what I was trained for. Draco’s right, I resent these missions.

It doesn’t help that I got nearly shot, too. Some drunk patron didn’t like me stopping him and asking for his ID and fired a shot at me from his pistol. Looks like every common street criminal is equipped with Muggle arms these days. I was pretty lucky I wasn’t just wearing my shield amulet, but also my bullet-proof vest. They’re both compulsory equipment for Aurors anyway, but I used to consider protective gear what my colleagues call gay. It’s only since Draco came into my life that I’ve started to care about things. I seriously want to return from my missions in one piece.

So at least I managed to do that, but else I didn’t have any luck. No one in all the shady bars and corners south of London would tell the pretty little redhead where to find the guy who sells magi-crack. It’s been a waste of a day. And I’ve still got to write a report on it. It’s almost nine pm. I’ve Apparated back to the Ministry. That is, as close to it as possible. I’m trudging along, the two miles of the safety radius seeming like ten. At a distance, I see Professor Jenkins walk by. He’s on his way home, no doubt, while Draco is still down in the labs, washing up. Draco. I feel a smile tug at my lips. Another hour and I’m going to collect him in the lobby to take him home. As I walk, I pull my map from my pocket, just to see his name and his little moving dot. Hopefully Kendricks isn’t in the same room. I can’t stand it when he is.

There’s Draco’s name, in the Potions Section’s main lab.

And there’s another name right next to his.

But it isn’t Samuel Kendricks.

It’s Marcus Flint.

-

As I’m racing towards the Ministry, crazed by the idea I might be too late, I know this is the worst seconds of my life. And that is saying something.

I don’t take the time to go into the lobby and scream alarm. As soon as I’m past the doors, I Apparate down to the Potions Section.

The moment I’m there, I understand that I should have raised the alarm. I should have done what I’ve learnt, take the three golden steps. Breathe, concentrate, act. If I had done that, I wouldn’t have landed myself in a trap.

I’m inside a cupboard, pressed in between a dark, gleaming front that must be the door and rows and rows of shelves that line the back wall. I remember those lamp-like flasks, glowing with the liquid inside.

I’m inside Professor Jenkins’ secret cabinet.

When I try Video Phono to get Reuben from the lobby, my wand gives the signal it can’t reach beyond the cabinet’s walls. And there’s no handle or lock anywhere.

Still, I try Alohomora. It doesn’t work. Of course it wouldn’t be as simple as that. Thankfully Alohomora is not all I got these days. As I run my hands over the dark glass surface of the cabinet’s front, feeling for a secret latch, my eyes and ears adjust. Squinting through the glass, I can make out two figures in the lab outside.

One of them is Draco, the other one looks like Samuel Kendricks. As the glass of the cabinet seems to be clearing up, I see it really is Kendricks. And that echoing laugh is Kendricks’ laugh. But it has an evil edge to it that’s got nothing to do with Jenkins’ lazy assistant. Yes, I remember that laugh from Quidditch matches in Hogwarts an eternity back. And then there’s the stink and the front teeth. They are subtly protruding from Kendricks’ otherwise perfect mouth.

Marcus Flint isn’t an unregistered animagus after all, no black mouse. The truth is so much simpler.

Polyjuice Potion.

Flint can’t see me, he isn’t aware I’m there, and Draco isn’t, either. But I can see and hear everything like through an open window now, and it’s living hell.

Flint has ripped the lab robes off Draco, now he pulls the chain with the shield amulet from Draco’s shirt.

“The fairy is wearing jewellery to work, how gay is that,” he mocks. “Yeah, I don’t think we can allow that.”

Then he yanks the chain off Draco’s neck with such force his skin tears and blood spatters onto his white shirt.

“Porta Aperta,” I croak, feverishly poking my wand at the cabinet’s door. “Exitus Directus! Exitus Directus!”

On the other side, Flint is laughing at Draco.

“Oh, no,” he says with a fake frown. “We better get the rest of your clothes off of you, too, else everything is going to get seriously stained.”

He strips Draco of his shirt, trousers and briefs, this time using his wand. Draco is standing naked now. Flint circles him and laughs at him like the madman he is, at Draco’s hairless smooth skin, his missing nipple, and at his wings.

I’ve tried another half a dozen picklock charms, frenzied with horror and fear, when finally, at Transitio Subito, something clicks inside the glass of the door. And then, without a sound, it opens. Pure adrenaline is racing through me. But when I raise my wand, getting ready to charge, something glibbery slides down my hand and wrist, congealing on my skin. It’s a bright red substance that rapidly turns into an impenetrable coating, and I can feel it seal my wand, trapping its powers. It’s the kind of thing a potioneer would invent to protect what’s his, and it effectively turns me into a Squib. If I’m really quick, maybe I can still Disapparate with Draco.

“Accio,” I cry against all odds, pushing the door fully open and pointing my wand at him. Flint whips around to face me as fast as if this was a Quidditch match.

“Stupefy,” he shouts, and the last thing I see is Draco’s eyes on me, huge and shining with unshed tears.

When I come to maybe a minute later, I’m lying in a heap, painfully squashed in between the cabinet’s walls. My useless wand is gone. The door is firmly shut again. I’m crouching on something soft, and I realize it’s Draco’s clothes. Apparently they reacted to my last, stunted spell and flew into the cupboard before Flint shut me back in.

Outside in the lab, Flint hasn’t yet started with his real agenda. Because he’s got to have one, this is not just a hate crime. He wouldn’t do this if there wasn’t anything in it for him. He’s the type who acts on orders, and for material gain. But he’s also a sadist. He wants to see Draco suffer, and make me see it. Whatever his plan, he’ll do the worst to Draco, and at least partly it’ll be for my sake. Because it’s true what Draco said, Flint feels I humiliated him, and now he wants to make me pay.

He pushes Draco back against the stone wall and spits in his face.

“I’m a dirty half-breed!” he shouts. “Come on, I want to hear you say it, fairy. I’m a dirty, filthy half-breed!”

When Draco keeps mum, Flint hits him so hard his head bounces against the wall. I roar out, powerless. Maybe Flint heard it. He throws a triumphant look at where I’m caged in the cabinet. The Saviour, condemned to watch the one man he’s meant to protect be destroyed. I almost wish Flint would use curses on him. He does it this way, the Muggle way, because he wants to degrade him to the ultimate limit. He doesn’t only want to break Draco’s body, but his spirit, too. But Draco doesn’t cave. He’s bleeding from the lip and brow, and there’s scratches all across his side from where he hit the rough stone wall, stripped down like he is. But if there’s one thing you can’t take away from a Malfoy, it’s their pride. It still shines from his eyes.

A movement catches my gaze, a billowing blackish waft under the fume hood in the corner. Something is coming through there, forming into a familiar bird-like shape.

A Dementor.

I jump to my feet and cry the spell, Expecto Patronum, but I don’t have my wand anymore, I can’t do anything, anything. Despairing, I hammer against the glass walls with both my fists until the skin over my knuckles cracks open.

Draco has collapsed onto the flagstones.

“Didn’t expect to see that one again, did you,” Flint sneers. “My client complained when I set it on you the first time, he was dead afraid he’d be found out. Silly old hag. But I’m going to deal with you my way now, the old way, like any self-respecting wizard should. And this time, your john won’t save you, you filthy whore, this time you’ll be on your own! Now defend yourself like a wizard if you can, half-breed!”

And leering in my direction, Flint hands Draco my ruined wand. He knows the wand doesn’t work, he knows Draco can’t do a Patronus, God, he can’t do a Patronus, and I can’t help him, and the Dementor is going to take his soul. The next time my one love will be looking at me, his spirit will be gone from his beautiful eyes. And my stars, my stars will be gone, too.

Draco is going to be a walking dead, and my stars will be gone, and he’ll never know he was my everything.

Draco has scrambled to his feet. He’s stumbling away from the Dementor, knocking over a cauldron. A gallon of what looks like bubbling milk spills all over the floor. Draco drops my wand into the mess. Quickly, he bends to pick it up again, his eyes fixed on the Dementor, but it won’t help him, nothing’ll help him. Already, the Dementor is swooping down towards him. It’s a horrible rerun of the scene in Knockturn Alley. Draco has closed his eyes. I can see his lips move. And from the tip of the wand in his hand erupts a blinding silver stream, forming into a four legged shape; a huge, shining beast. The Dementor shrinks back. Flint cowers in a corner. When the silver animal turns to the Dementor to charge, I see what it is. A giant, shaggy bull with a shock of coarse hair between its horns and a scar the shape of a lightning bolt on its brow. The bull breaks into a full gallop, its head lowered as if to pierce the Dementor with its twenty inches horns. The Dementor turns to flee, and in a matter of seconds, it has vanished up the fume hood.

It’s gone.

Draco flicks the wand again. It’s miraculously restored; it must have been the milky liquid that cleaned it, and Draco knew it would.

“Expelliarmus,” he cries. Flint’s wand flies through the air. But he should have used Avada Kedavra. I learnt to use it, but Draco never did. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore when his own life was at stake, and he didn’t kill Flint now. He signed his own death sentence like that.  

Flint rushes forward. Draco flicks my wand, it looks like he means to Stupefy Flint, but before he can form any words, his former team captain has reached him and with a brutal punch to the chest sends him to the ground. My wand flips from his hand as he falls, and Flint kicks it across the floor, over to the stove in the corner, out of reach. Then he gets his own wand from where it landed under the workbench. His laugh is echoing off the walls.

“You aren’t going to get away this time, half-breed,” he shouts. Draco is crouching on the floor, looking up at Flint.

“Why do you want me dead, Marcus?”

“I don’t care if you live or die, Malfoy. Don't you get it, dimwit? Somebody promised me money in exchange for killing you! Only when I got back to the old fucker the other day, he pretended he had forgotten all about the deal. Said he didn't even know you, then chased me from his door step. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get my money in the end.”

He flexes his wand. Draco raises his hands, still on his knees.

“No, Marcus. No.”

“Too late for begging, fairy. Now you’re going to get cut down to size. Too bad for you there’s a market for those disgusting things.”

And at long last, I, too, understand what’s going to happen. He’s going to use Sectumsempra on Draco, he’s going to cut off Draco’s wings.

I break to my knees next to the orderly, shiny shelves, retching.

Flint is brandishing his wand, shouting the horrible incantation. Draco has got to his feet. His palms still raised, he stands unscathed, although he isn’t doing anything to defend himself. It’s the fairy magic. It’s protecting him, but I know it’ll only hold up for a couple more seconds.

There, Draco gets hit. He’s thrown backwards. But it seems he hasn’t been hurt. His sneer is the same it has always been.

“You never had much aim, Flint, you suck at this just as much as you suck at billiard and at throwing a Quaffle!”

He knows he has lost, and that there’s nothing he can do anymore, nothing but to be true to himself in these last moments. To be Draco Mocking Malfoy.

“Try again, Flint. It’s what you do, isn’t it. Fail the first round. Same as with your NEWTs, if I remember correctly.”

Flint roars with rage. Throwing his wand to the side, he grabs the workbench with both of Kendricks’ spade-like hands. He lifts the workbench over his head to crush Draco.

Still on my knees, I turn away because I’m incapable of looking on anymore. On the cabinet’s floor, by my right knee, there’s Draco’s chain. There’s two pendants hanging from it, not just one. There isn’t just the amulet, there’s also a tiny, silver key.

The key I once saw Jenkins use on this very cupboard.

My hands shaking, I gather up the key.

I feel for the inside lock in the cabinet's glass front, and find it.

I open the door.

With one flying leap, I’m by the stove, and I grab my wand from the stone floor.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The workbench is wrenched from Flint’s grip. As it jerks upwards, bottles, decanters, Bunsen burners are set sliding, then go down around Flint in a rain of shattering glass and splashing liquids of all the colours of the rainbow. Flint seems to be raising his face upwards in amazement as the bench hovers above him. It performs a sedate somersault, then it comes crashing down, top first, flattening him to the floor.

You’ve got to love Wingardium Leviosa. First-year spell, and all that’s needed to wipe out a troll. Kendrick’s form is buried under the bench. All that’s visible is one leg. It doesn’t look like Flint survived this, but then you never know with trolls. They do have skulls like rock. I don’t waste any time on checking.

All that’s on my mind is Draco.

I’m by his side to gather him into my arms, to convince myself he’s alright, and then I see it.

A crumpled, thin piece of cloth on the floor next to him. The first moment, I think it’s some part of his clothing that wasn’t sucked into the cupboard with the rest. Then I see the blackened veins running through the dull, brownish tissue.

It’s his wings. They are severed from his body. And my hands are soaked red from holding him. Blood is gushing from the back of his shoulders in thick, warm streams.

Flint hit him with the curse after all.

Sectumsempra. Forever Cut.

It’s like my old nightmare.

Only this is real.

“Draco, oh God, Draco,” I croak.

His face is turned towards mine, his eyes are open, but his gaze is dim and flickering, and I know he doesn’t see me.

He can’t be dying. He is dying, he is losing blood, so much blood.

God, I knew that claim in the books that cutting wings off fairies didn’t cost them their lives was a lie. I knew it. God, I need to do something. If only this one time, I’ve got to really be The Saviour.

Vulnera Sanentur. Snape did it for him the last time.

I adjust my wand in my slippery fingers and aim it at the gushing wounds at his back.

“No.”

It’s no more than the whisper of leaves. He’s conscious, he’s talking to me.

“No, please.”

“I won’t allow you to die on me, Draco.”

“My wings, please, my wings,” he sighs. He wants his wings. But there’s no way to reattach what got cut off by dark magic. No way...

“The Light Drops,” he whispers, feebly gesturing at the open cabinet.

“The bottles on the shelves? You sure? Are they safe? You sure they’ll work? Vulnera Sanentur will stop the bleeding, it’ll save your life! Trying those drops to save your wings might kill you!”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes have closed.

I get the flasks using Accio.

I open them with Alohomora.

For the rest, I’ll have to rely on my hands, and hope.

Gathering up the rags that have been his wings, I drape them over my knees. Then, holding his head up, I cautiously put the first flask to his lips and let the luminescent liquid trickle into his mouth. Most of it spills over his chin down onto his chest. I don’t know if he has swallowed anything, I haven’t got the faintest idea what would be the correct dose, so I just go on pouring the potion down his throat, pleading for a miracle in my head.

I only stop when he starts choking. It’s a feeble sound, like a dying breath. I’ve made him drink half a dozen bottles of these Light Drops, and there’s no effect. He’s still bleeding like a slaughtered lamb. The flagstones below him are covered in red. When I turn him over, he’s limp in my arms, a lifeless doll.

My head empty, I hold the wings to his shoulder blades, aligning the open wounds as best I can while his blood keeps washing over my hands.

This is wrong, I made the wrong choice. I’m losing him like this. I let go of his wings to get my wand. Blindly bringing its tip to his butchered back, I rasp, “Vulnera Sanentur.”

Almost instantly, the bleeding slows down. But he doesn’t move.

“Draco! Draco, come back to me!”

His eyes are broken, dull and dead like his wings.

It’s too late. I’ve lost him. I made the wrong choice.

“Vulnera Sanentur,” I whisper desperately. His lids sink down over his empty gaze, and it feels like the end. My wand falls from my grip, my hand drops onto his still body, and all I can do is close my eyes against what I did.

And that is when I feel it. A faint flutter.

His wing is fluttering below my fingers. I open my eyes, and there’s his wings before me, faintly glowing. The glimmer is feeble, but it still outshines the light of the oil lamps on the walls. The flow of blood has dried up, and as I touch his shoulders, I see it’s really true. His wings have grown back to his body. And as I look on, they slowly, slowly go back to their true, shining, silver green. The black pattern of dead veins has vanished; the vessels in the thin tissue throb as they fill with blood.

Draco comes to, gasping and curling up with a pain I can only imagine.

Quickly, I pick up my wand and cry, “Dolores Dimines!”

Another gut-wrenching ten seconds later, he stops writhing.

“My wings, my wings,” he stutters, his eyes glued to my face. They are filled with life again, and with the urgency of his question.

My nerves wrecked, I nod, then carefully feel the curves at the tops of his wings to make sure. Yeah. Yeah. They are firmly joint to his shoulder blades where they belong. The cavity at the underside is smooth and dry, I don’t even feel a scar. Just the familiar seam where his skin transitions to the slick tissue of the wings. They are supple to the touch again, vibrant. Alive.

“It’s all good, love. You’re whole again.”

He relaxes into my embrace. I stroke him wherever I can reach. His face and chest and wings are wet with my tears. I’m crying because I’ve lived through my worst nightmare, and because he’s whole again.

Looking up at me from softly sparkling eyes, the glimmering green of his wings framing his head, he laboriously lifts his hand and caresses my wet cheeks. He’s drawing slow, deep breaths.

On every other exhalation, he’s sighing my name.


	35. Out and proud

It’s all over the papers. I couldn’t cover anything up, not with a man dead, killed on Ministry premises. Yeah, I killed Flint. Maybe he wasn’t part-troll after all. I have killed a couple of times by now, mostly in self-defence, or else to save a colleague. Draco keeps asking me how I’m coping with what happened. In a twisted way he seems to be feeling bad, like he forced me to kill Flint or something. I’ve told him he needn’t be afraid I’ll be haunted. The fact is, it has never felt more right to cross the ultimate frontier to save someone. No, Flint’s death is definitely not going to keep me awake at night. But it meant I had to file a report. So I did, like this was just another case. I turned my personal hour of hell into paperwork. And the tabloids turned it into a story to enjoy with a sandwich on the subway.

Hate killing in the Ministry prevented at the last second. The Saviour strikes again: Auror Harry Potter saves half-breed Ministry intern Draco Malfoy from getting chopped up.

He hadn’t been in the closet before; he had told individual people, and allowed me to do the same. But this is a whole different scale, obviously. He won’t be able to hide who he is from anyone now.

I’m a bit worried how he’ll cope. But then the single most important thing is that he survived unharmed. That the Light Drops healed him, completely healed him. It’s nothing short of a miracle. No way to reattach what got cut off by dark magic. That’s what Lin said. And she sure knows her shit as well as any Portuba Muff. But she didn’t take into account what a skilled specialist working in Magical Development can do. A whiz of a wizard like Draco Malfoy, who in a matter of weeks managed to create a potion that is stronger than Sectumsempra. Something his own boss hadn’t been able to do in three frigging decades.

And the Light Drops didn’t just make Draco recover from Flint’s attack. They healed his heart, too. They even made his left nipple grow back. There’s a medical report confirming that in one of his personal drawers in Sirius’ cabinet.

After the attack, I forced him to stay at home for three days, then took him to St. Mungo’s for a check-up. I just couldn’t take his way of continuously punching me in the stomach to prove his fitness anymore.

At St. Mungo’s, they declared him to be in top condition. I insisted on a second opinion and specially asked for Ernie Macmillan as a consultant. He’s a heart specialist at St. Mungo’s. Ernie was always top of the class back in Hogwarts, plus as a former Hufflepuff he can be trusted to be thorough. And to not let Draco’s reputation as a follower of Voldemort or the fact he’s got wings influence him. Anyway, Ernie ran all kinds of tests on Draco, then told him his heart was perfectly fine. In fact, he rated Draco’s cardiac performance way above the one-hundred percent mark in his age group.

Draco wouldn’t stop mentioning that rating the whole way home. I had taken him to St. Mungo’s in the car to keep the strain of travelling to a minimum for him. It meant I was forced to listen to his bragging for almost an hour, stuck in heavy traffic. Every couple of minutes he promised he’d make me look just so old the next time we’d meet on the Quidditch pitch. It was all kinds of annoying, but I couldn’t wipe that goofy grin off my face.

What I did to him years ago now is finally really in the past. He’s going to play Quidditch again.

And other games.

-

A week later he gets two Ministry letters by owl post. The first says his sentence got rescinded because of faulty procedure. His record has been cleared, and he’s licenced to carry a wand again.

The second letter is from the Department of Magical Development, Potions Section, and contains a document declaring Draco Lucius Malfoy to be First Assistant to Professor Jenkins as from Monday next week.

The promotion was to be expected. Sam Kendricks wasn’t aware what Flint was up to when he offered to go to work in Sam’s place so Sam could fly to San Francisco for a mini break. But he still got sacked, and Jenkins has the right to promote staff. Of course he’d want Draco as his First Assistant.

That’s the one good thing about what happened; Draco’s extraordinary skill as a potioneer has been proven to the world. The Light Drops have been officially acknowledged as an effective and safe healing potion against physical damage inflicted by dark magic, and were named the Malfoy Drops by the DMD. Jenkins renounced all claims at being a co-creator. Sometimes people with the most unattractive habits can turn out to be outright awesome.

So Draco may have lost the Malfoy fortune, but it looks like he’s still going to end up a millionaire. He grins when I tell him that.

“And you’re going to get Jenkins’ job, too, and before long, trust me,” I say. “The old bird looks like he’s a hundred, he’s got to retire at some point."

"Jenkins is not the type to retire."

"Well, he's not going to live forever."

Draco frowns at me.

“I hope he’s going to stick around for a long time.”

I raise my palms.

“Sorry. I just thought I was talking to Draco Malfoy here. Where’s all that Slytherin ambition?”

“Just so you know, I’m going to make those millions you’ve been talking about, redhead.”

He’s taken to calling me that since I saved him because apparently I still had reddish hair from the Polyjuice Potion when I showed up in Jenkins’ lab. When I complained about the name-calling, he asked if I’d prefer it if he called me tits.

“Yeah, and I’m going to use my money to buy Malfoy Manor back from the crown once my father’s gone,” he continues. “Hope that’s enough ambition for you, freckles. And Jenkins is a brilliant teacher, so my career can only benefit from me working with him, okay? Yeah, and FYI, he’s one-hundred-and-thirty-two.”

“One-hundred-and-thirty-two? Are you telling me he found out how to distil the Elixir of Life without the Philosopher’s Stone? That’s what you put in the Malfoy Drops?”

“No, it’s...”

He breaks off.

“It’s what?”

“Alright. I’ve seen Jenkins survive three major explosions since I joined the team, and each time, he was back to looking his old self within twenty-four hours. And that red is his natural hair colour. You’ll agree it puts even Ron Weasley’s foxy hue to shame.”

“Yeah? And?”

He rolls his eyes.

“A bit slow on the uptake when it comes to the solving of mysteries, The Chosen One, as usual. Seriously, haven’t you figured it out by now? Jenkins is a half-breed. Don’t spread it, though. He isn’t out.”

“Half-breed? But... what kind of half-breed?”

He rolls his eyes at me again.

“Okay, I’ll give you one more clue. Remember Fawkes?”

I know I’m gaping, but I can’t stop. He nods.

“The main agent of the Malfoy Drops is Jenkins’ tears.”

It’s like I’m being sucked into a pensieve and spit out in a gloomy basement office, seeing myself sitting at a table, building up anger at a belated interviewee and watching Jenkins drying his eyes with his wand. Collecting tears.

So that’s the mysterious, scarce ingredient. That’s the secret of the Malfoy Drops. Jenkins has got a great-great-grandfather who’s a frigging phoenix.

“Yeah, Potter. There are more of us out there than you’d think,” Draco says, and with a smirk, he adds, “Not everyone is just a boring regular human, you know.”

Yeah, I was worried about him getting outed like he was, but he’s going to deal just fine.

Half-breed or not, he’ll always be pure, arrogant Malfoy.

-

“Lin?”

“Yes. Harry.”

“I wanted to thank you.”

“What ever for.”

“For clearing Draco’s name.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on. His sentence was annulled. You are the only one who can engineer something like that. I’m glad you did.”

“You should thank Ernest Macmillan.”

“Ernie?”

“Susan Bones contacted me about the matter already a few weeks back, but it was Ernest who convinced me I had to do something about it. He called me the other day, said he had come across an injustice that needed to be corrected. Apparently he had examined Draco Malfoy as a patient at St. Mungo’s. He didn’t tell me anything about it; obviously he wouldn’t violate regulations like that. He only said he had noticed Draco wasn’t branded with the Dark Mark. And that he had assumed that to be an effect of something he called the Malfoy Drops at first.”

There’s a rushing and stuttering, telling me she just got a call on another line.

“Harry? Yeah, I’m back. What... Ah, the Malfoy Drops. Apparently that’s a new potion that’s supposed to reverse permanent physical damage induced by dark magic. Ernest tested those drops on a number of Death Eaters who had come to St. Mungo’s before with the request of having their Mark removed. The drops didn’t work on the marks.”

There’s a faint beep, then the connection breaks. Half a minute later, Lin calls me back. I only get her voice, no image this time.

“Yeah, Harry. Sorry about that. I’m really busy right now, lots of new projects. Where were we?”

“The Malfoy Drops don’t have the power to remove the Dark Mark.”

“Oh right. To sum things up, Ernest concluded that Draco Malfoy has never been a Death Eater, and that the charges against him were unfounded. I was compelled to agree. Any wizard who’s considered to be a Death Eater, or former Death Eater, is supposed to be wearing the Dark Mark. I could have told Ernest up front those Malfoy Drops wouldn’t work on the Dark Mark. It’s permanent, end of story. Those drops are nothing but a marketing scam. But obviously Ernest would feel he had to make absolutely sure. Hufflepuffs, eh.”

She chuckles. So she hasn’t heard the Malfoy Drops have been ministry-approved. Obviously she’s lost touch with what’s going on. There’s a lengthy whoosh in the line again.

“Harry? You still there?”

“Lin. The Malfoy Drops aren’t a marketing scam.”

“Oh, Harry. You are determined to admire Malfoy, aren’t you. Do you realize he launched a media campaign to help the sales of those drops? He’s been spreading a wild story that was even published in the Daily Prophet, about himself being part-fairy and getting attacked and having his wings cut off with Sectumsempra, and you magically appearing on scene to reattach them with the Malfoy Drops, which he himself had conveniently created just days earlier! Harry, he’s using your fame for his own business ends!”

“What if that story is the truth?”

“Come on, Harry, don’t try to fool me. The whole thing is nothing but low-quality fiction!”

I humph. I’m just too happy to fight.

“Anyway, without the Mark, Malfoy doesn’t count as a Death Eater. So I saw to it that his record was set straight. You know consistency is very important to me.”

“No abolishing of established facts and so on.”

“Precisely. In my job, that’s a key point.”

I feel playful today, so I just ask her.

“What is your job, Lin? What is it exactly that you do for a living? Just curious.”

She laughs, like me asking that question was completely surreal. This time, when the line goes dead, I know it’s for good.

So it’s Ernie Macmillan I owe. Didn’t see that coming. A nice guy, but I never expected him to ever be of any real consequence to my life. And even less so Susan Bones. Well. Thank Godric for Hufflepuffs, I guess.


	36. A Christmas party

I hope I haven’t made a mistake. I’ve given him a broom for Christmas this morning, a brand-new Ultra Rebel 3000. Only to be tried out under my personal supervision. After all, he has only just recovered from a near-fatal slasher attack, long-term poisoning, and chronic heart disease. I told him he must avoid any kind of overexertion. I also told him to keep the broom strapped in its case inside the flat at all times. The Rebel is notorious for being as rebellious as its name suggests. I don’t want my flat to end up like Ginny’s exe’s when Ron did that stunt with her Quidditch balls. Yeah, I hope I haven’t made a mistake buying the thing.

I’ve gone out to borrow those very balls from Ginny right after breakfast so Draco and I can play some Quidditch over the holidays. Book a trainings court, have some fun, just the two of us. He’s extremely confident about his flying skills, to put it mildly. He’s convinced he was always better than me back when we used to play against each other in Hogwarts. I can’t wait to teach him some modesty.

When I come back, I run into Hermione and Ron at the door to my building. They came to call on us, pay us a season’s visit. They are clearly aiming at Christmassy cheerfulness. Their smiles when we say hello are extra bright, especially Ron’s. His future in-laws did a terrific job on him; with those teeth, he could pass for a US movie star.

I’m really happy to see him, both of them. They still haven’t really met Draco yet, and it’s past time. Yeah, I’m really happy they are making this move to reach out, to welcome Draco into their lives. They even brought two presents. Plus the traditional plum pudding from Mrs. Weasley.

“By the way, the Malfoy Drops made George’s ear grow back. Isn’t that fantastic?” Hermione says as she’s walking up the stairs by my side. “Ron thinks it’s fantastic, don’t you, dear.”

Ron just grunts behind us, but he’s following us up the stairs to my flat. Oh Godric, I really, really want this to work out.

When I enter the flat, Ron and Hermione in tow and my pulse suddenly racing with nerves, I see the Rebel’s case in the hallway, empty. And from the living room comes the buzz of a flying broom. The next moment, there’s the sound of something shattering to pieces. Expecting the worst, I rush into the living room.

The floor is covered in broken Christmas balls. Draco is circling the ruffled-looking Christmas tree on his Rebel in elegant if hazardous curves, wearing nothing but a pair of silver Speedos, his wings spread out and glittering like candle light.

“Hey, Harry, you ready for your personal Christmas Special of Waltzing Wizards? I’m going to do the first ever airborne show act! I’m afraid that means you’ll have to keep your hands to yourself!”

Behind me, Ron makes a strange noise through his nose. But Hermione energetically steps up to my side.

“Merry Christmas, Malfoy,” she calls out. “I mean Draco.”

Draco stares down at the three of us, and the next moment, the Rebel bucks and twists, effectively unseating its rider. For a moment, Draco hangs off to one side, frantically flapping his wings, then he falls. I dive to catch him, and I do. I became Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team at age eleven for a reason. Draco’s wings flutter against me like those of a man-sized Golden Snitch as I hold him pressed to my chest.

“You okay, baby?” I gasp, out of breath with shock. He nods, then wriggles out of my grip and hastens from the room, his wings swaying from his bare shoulders, the Speedos showcasing his bubble butt like only Speedos can.

Ron makes that noise in his nose again. Hermione says nothing for once.

Yeah, I guess this couldn’t have gone much worse.

-

Draco has changed into a pair of jeans and one of my sweat shirts. It covers his upper body like a tent. Everybody has said hello, nicely and formally, like no one is thinking about things like Speedos, or silver wings, or seven years of fighting each other.

Hermione has taken the lead in the conversation. She has made me unwrap our present. It’s for both of us, and it’s a Nativity scene. Traditional from the Alps, Hermione explains. Pimped with special care.

It’s what she’s been using Sirius’ farm animals for. When she explains how she's been thinking we might both enjoy this little yule tide gimmick, with the animals having been the toys of generations of Black kids, and with us both having roots in the Black family, it's a reminder of why she's my favourite girl in the world. She repaired every last wooden tail, and she did a really nice job with that Nativity scene. The sheep’s bleating isn’t exactly melodious, and every couple of minutes the donkey utters a shrieking eyore and the ox drops something that smells funny, but the angels flying about above the roof of the little stable will sing any Christmas hit known to mankind if you shout just the first few words of the lyrics at them. And little Baby Jesus waves at everyone whose gaze he catches as he’s sitting on mother Mary’s lap.

Hermione gives Draco a short summary of the Nativity story, and the life of Jesus, followed by an abstract of the history of Christianity. Ron keeps to wolfing down his mom’s plum pudding.

When Hermione is done, Draco gets up to serve everyone some more tea, then clears his throat.

“So, the two of you got no problem with me?”

“Somebody being a half-breed has never been a problem for any one of us, I think you know that much,” Hermione says smoothly.

Draco shifts on his feet and looks at Baby Jesus. Baby Jesus waves back at him, oblivious to his plight. I think it’s the first time anyone called Draco a half-breed to his face not to abuse him but as a simple stating of fact.

“We’ve been best friends with Hagrid from day one in Hogwarts, just as an example,” Hermione continues, then adds, “Hagrid is a half-giant.”

That’s Professor Hermione Granger for you, never above spelling out facts any baby knows, and sounding exactly like the annoying know-it-all she was at age eleven. Draco gives a short, tense nod, his face a flaming red. This is definitely the first time anyone compared him to Hagrid.

“Yeah, I know, that’s great. I mean it’s great that you... that I...”

He clears his throat again.

“What I meant to ask was, it’s no problem for you that I’m living here? That I’m with Harry? I mean, you never liked me, and I know why, and I think Ron told Harry the other day he won’t come see him anymore as long as he’s with me, and I get why, but now you’re here, and I hope that means we can... that perhaps we can... Okay, say something? Ron?”

Ron shrugs and takes a big spoonful of plum pudding, obviously wildly uneasy and incapable of glossing over the big deal this is. Me living with Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy as good as pleading for his blessing.

Hermione, on the other hand, isn’t anywhere close to being out of her depths. Being unable to cope in any situation is something that’s simply not part of her genetic make-up. Lecturing Ron, on the other hand, most certainly is.

“Draco, everyone can see you’ve changed, even Ron here,” she states matter-of-factly. “And I don’t mean the wings, or the ears, or, you know.”

She waves at his face, forcing him to take a step back. The gesture could be insulting. But Hermione isn’t aware of that, she’s only aware of facts. And of her mission to get Ron to follow her lead and embrace that Draco is here to stay.

“Dumbledore used to say it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be. Dumbledore was a wise man, wasn’t he, Ron.”

Ron grunts something unintelligible, his mouth full of pudding.

“Plus, Harry has been lonely for a long time, and he says you’re his family now, Draco.” Okay, thanks for making me sound super pathetic, Hermione. And for telling him I claimed him to be my family in front of my friends before I ever asked him what we are. I sneak a glance at Draco to check his reaction. He looks right back at me, smirking, but his eyes radiate stars. They dim a bit at Hermione’s next words, though.

“And with your whole situation and all, having no money and nothing but an internship job-wise till a week ago, of course Harry would take you in.”

Yeah, his eyes are back to their usual grey now, but he doesn’t cast them down, he meets Hermione’s gaze, looking as arrogant as I have ever seen him. By now I know it’s his way of dealing; a simple reflex of self-preservation. And I know he understands she means to argue his case, if in her incorruptibly blunt way. I’d swear I see a smile tug at his lips when she concludes, “I think everyone agrees it’s legit for people to watch out for their family. Ron?”

Ron munches something around a mouthful of pudding that very much sounds like kiss my ass, then swallows and says, “Anyone in the mood for a game?”

He lets the present he brought levitate above the couch table and tear open mid-air. The paper sails into the bin in the corner and the present lands on the table with a thud. It’s a season’s version of Exploding Snap.

I never expected Ron to be all smiles and roses. I mean, he’s Ron. Graciousness is not exactly his middle name. But he can’t argue with his own words. And even less with his girlfriend. As he’s shuffling the cards in the air, he looks at her smug smile like he’d love to transform her into a kitten. Or just anything that can’t talk. God, I love my two best friends.

And I love them all the more for the fact they understand that people do change. And sometimes in even more fundamental ways than growing wings.

-

A couple of hours of nerve-wrecking Exploding Snap and aberrant amounts of seasonal food later, Draco and I are alone again.

He has given me his present, a Proteus Planner. It looks like a golden credit card, and there’s room for entries for every hour of the day from January 1st 2002 into the indefinite future. There’s a stack of twenty-five identical cards to go with it.

“For your future students,” he says. “Like this, you’ll be able to hand out assignments simply by entering them into your own planner. Or to give people detention. Or to reschedule lessons.”

“Why would I reschedule lessons.”

“There’s always something that can come up, isn’t there.”

Living with him, I’ve learnt that’s true.

“I might not get to have any students, Draco. I’ve sent an application, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get the position.”

He scoffs.

“Alright.”

“Seriously…”

“You are Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake! They’ll fly you in on a Hippogriff and hold a three-day welcome banquet in your honour! You are so going to get that job, and you are going to keep it, too. You are going to be The One Who Stayed. Oh Merlin, those students are so going to freak out when they hear the news. Harry Potter to be the new Professor for Defence against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts!”

I honestly hope he’s right about my chances. At first I only thought about going into teaching because he had asked me to, but at some point I realized I’d really like to be a teacher, and that I won’t miss the fighting that has been my life for so long like, at all. I had a good time working as an Auror, but things change. I don’t really need all that anymore. Time to let others be the hero.

And I’ll still be able to spend every night with Draco, even if I work at Hogwarts and he stays in the capital. Thank Godric for apparition!

Draco is still happily envisioning me at Hogwarts.

“Yeah, they are so going to freak out," he says, sounding thoroughly pleased. "Only promise me one thing, Harry, don’t show them your Muggle moves, or the whole class will swoon!”

He’s talking about Krav Maga. He has asked me to teach him, and makes me demonstrate more or less the whole lesson whenever we practice.

“Not everyone is as easily impressed as you are,” I say.

“Okay, the girls and the gays will swoon.”

I shake my head, laughing, and lift one of the golden cards so it catches the light.

“These are truly beautifully designed, Draco. Don’t you think they’re a bit too valuable to give out to students? Is it really what you had in mind when you crafted them?”

“Well,” he says with just a hint of a smirk, “family life takes a lot of organizing, too, from what I’ve heard. Just think all those Quidditch games we are going to have to attend if we start this adoption thing. So I guess you could keep the cards for the kids.”

He smiles at me while I try to wrap my brain around the idea of twenty-five children. Of course he’s joking. He must be. I guess. How many multiplets are considered normal in fairy families again? I’ll have to ask Hermione.

He snatches the cards from my hand and puts them on the couch table, then takes my arm and wraps it around his shoulders.

“Relax, Potter,” he murmurs, settling his head against my shoulder.

We sit on the couch for a while, cuddling, and look at Hermione’s Nativity scene under the Christmas tree.

Eventually, his eyes on the tirelessly waving Baby Jesus, Draco says, “I like the story. The message. Too much gore for kids and too much fantasy and magic to be believable, obviously, but it’s still beautiful. But, you know, Harry, to me, the Saviour will always be you.”

“Don’t speak blasphemy,” I say, idly stroking his wings. “I did some tricks with my wand that happened to work out when it counted, but it’s not like I saved all mankind.”

“Perhaps you didn’t,” he says, snuggling into me. “But you did save me.”


	37. HEA

We’re in bed, both stripped down. I’ve shut the door to the living room. I don’t need Sirius’ cabinet witnessing our first time, however simple-minded a piece of furniture it may be.

Draco has been touching and teasing my body all over. He definitely likes big snakes, the little Slytherin. In the end I had to stop him and turn the tables on him so I wouldn’t blow this. Now he’s lying in the crook of my arm as I stroke his cock and his nipples, alternating between right and left simply because it’s so good that I can. He moans and writhes. Like he’s desperate for more. But his wings are primly folded to his back, and it seems to me he’s trying to keep his thighs shut. I know how to handle a guy, normally. But I don’t want to overpower him, or do anything wrong. He might need special treatment, and I want to make this perfect for him.

“Tell me what you like, baby.”

“I like this, but... I don’t know,” he says, choking on his words. A blush is blooming on his cheeks and spreading to his ears, making the pointed tips stand out where they peek through his pale hair. “I told you, all I’ve done is give people blowjobs, during those weeks in Knockturn Alley. Some tried to do stuff to me, but my fairy magic always stopped them. I’ve never had, you know, real sex with anyone in my life. All I know is my magic won’t stop you. It didn’t that one time when you... you know.”

“But I don’t want to do anything you don’t want, so please, tell me...”

“I want you to fuck me,” he cuts me short in a pained whisper.

Alright. Alright. It must be a million times that I’ve been imagining him saying this very sentence to me. Deep breaths. Don’t blow this, Harry. Don’t come now. Don’t devour him. You can do this. Just go slow.

Gently, I put him on his back and lift his legs, and for the first time, I really look at him.

I have seen my fair share of holes. But never something like his. The size of a gold Galleon, and shaded a rich pink, it’s cushiony with a drawn-in, glistening centre the colour of cinnamon. And it’s wet with goldenish precome, like the tip of his cock. Or maybe this isn’t precome but natural lube. When I bring my palms to his thighs and carefully move my hands down, towards his crack, his hole twitches and opens and a gush of that shimmering gel streams forth from it. He utters a small scream of shame and clenches his butt, trying to roll onto his side to shield himself from view. I don’t let him. I shouldn’t be doing this, keeping him pinned down and forcing his thighs apart, I mustn’t trigger memories of his time on the streets. But I just can’t help myself. The spicy tang of his juices revs all my instincts into frantic overdrive.

When I touch his entrance, his wetness washes over my hand like a mouthful of warm soup. There’s still no magical energy forcing me away, but his moans sound like sobs.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” I say, my voice trembling with a crazed desire, then I slide a finger into his opening. And he submits instantly. His head falling back, he arches his back to better meet the penetration.

Diving over him, I kiss him like I always wanted to, feeling his mouth and his core at the same time, warm and wet and willing under me.

Oh wow. I could sweep a World Cup Quidditch stadium full of Dementors clean in a heartbeat right now.

I twirl my finger inside him, stretching the velvety walls of his hole as if to prep him. He doesn’t really need it; he’s ready to be fucked as he is. When I withdraw my hand, his ass lifts off of the mattress, his leaking hole opening and closing like it’s trying to catch me. I hear my own excited chuckle, an incredibly base, lecherous sound. It makes him switch back to using his brain. He shuts his thighs and skids up the bed, away from me.

“No, no, baby, come back here. Come here.”

He has averted his face. His blush has crawled down his throat to his chest. He gives a tense shake of the head.

“Please, baby. I wasn’t laughing at you, you know I wasn’t! You’re beautiful when you show me how much you want me!”

“I’m not, I’m losing all this slick when you touch me, and I don’t look anything normal, I know I don’t! I look like something giant stung me down there!”

Something giant is actually going to sting him down there, but I don’t say that, I say, “Don’t you know you are all I’ve ever dreamt of? Don't you know I want you more than anything, all of you?”

For a moment we both seem to wait. Then he reaches for me, opening his thighs again.

And I just do it.

Lifting his legs and putting them to my shoulders, I bring my cock in line with his entrance. And then, inch by inch, I edge into him. I could go in full length with one lazy push; his hole is made for intercourse. It’s me who needs the time. I want to give him the best possible first time, and plunging in to the hilt, then shooting my load wouldn’t be doing that.

So once I’ve joint us, I keep still, trying to get some kind of grip. I fist his regrown hair, its ample lightness rich between my fingers. He hasn't put anything in, neither his gel from the drugstore nor any magic, and I marvel at how nature made his hair just perfect, like all the rest of him.

Like his eyes, his chest, his... oh my God, his ass. It's not just deliciously loose and squishy, it's like kneading me in a sort of programmed massage designed to draw a lover’s load.

I try to concentrate on my breathing.

He’s still burying his face by my shoulder as he clings to me, moaning.

“Draco, look at me,” I murmur. I stroke his brow. “Come on. I want to see your lovely eyes while I fuck you.” I feel his ass spill hot juice over my balls in response to those words, and he gives a distressed mewl.

“Baby,” I command him, and finally he obeys. There’s fear in his eyes, but there are also the stars that shine only for me.

I can’t hold back anymore, I tell him I love him over and over as I delve into his spasming, liquid hole, and it’s bliss beyond words.

He cries out my name then, like answering me, and I completely lose control.

I flip him over and start pounding into him at a fierce pace so his wings quiver. They are still folded to his back. I slow down.

“Open your wings,” I order. When he doesn’t do it, I say it again, this time going extra deep to help him understand I mean it. I want him all splayed out for me, ass, wings, everything. And he unfolds his wings with uncoordinated jerks until they are fully spread out below me.

Silver and green, the colours of Slytherin, they are set swaying with each thrust I deal him up his ass. Only now he has fully laid himself open to me. And it’s like he’s flying, like I’m riding him through the skies.

“My beauty. You’re my beauty, Draco.”

He groans something unintelligible and tries to rise onto his knees under me to take me in yet deeper. I let him, although I know I shouldn’t. He’s a first-timer, he shouldn’t get fucked till up beyond his rectal curve. But he’s pushing back against me like he’s craving the strain. I want him to come like this, now. I reach under his belly to work his shaft.

He holds up for ten seconds, then his cock spurts golden juice all over my fingers. But it’s not nearly the amount that shoots from his ass. The hot liquid is whipped into spirals of spray around my pumping cock, drenching my front up to my navel. The sight is beyond obscene.

But it’s his sounds that make me come, the rhythmic squirts of his backside ejaculation, and his raw screams.

I grab his hip with one hand and get hold of his wings with the other as all my powers concentrate in my balls. I fuck him so hard his buttocks are shoved upwards, until my body goes rigid and I start releasing my sperm into him with drawn-out, feral cries. He is past his own orgasm and has gone still under me. Resting his forehead against the mattress, he’s receiving shot after shot like a gift of mercy; like it’s a relief for him to have his churning insides coated with the thick balm of my climax at last.

Only when I’ve come down from that mad high, I let go of his wings. As I see them smooth back out before me, still creased in places from my grip, it hits me what I just did to him, what I became. A mindless, selfish, animal fuck machine.

He’s still clamping down on my root, applying a sort of wet suction. Somehow, that keeps my erection from fading.

I try to carefully withdraw, all I want is for him to be undamaged, for his body to lose any contortion it suffered and go back to being itself. But I can’t pull back from his hole, I’m stuck inside him.

“What’s happening, Harry,” he asks over the curve of his wing, sounding hoarse and helpless and shaken. I don’t know what’s happening.

But I suddenly remember one of Hermione’s more inappropriate lectures.

“Okay. A plug. It’s an ingenious concept evolution came up with to guarantee insemination in some species. Primarily insects. Basically, it’s a slime ball composed of the partners’ joint juices, sealing off the female’s channel once the male shot off his sperm so it’s kept inside.”

This must be an equivalent mechanism, with a sort of vacuum thingy going on. And I’m the slime ball.

It kind of fits.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t know why I… ” Draco moans under me, trying to dislodge my cock and clearly hurting his butt in the process.

“Shh, love, don’t,” I shoo. “Your body’s holding me in, it’s going to pass. Let’s just wait for a bit and see.”

“I don’t mean to be doing this,” he begins again. “I didn’t mean to… to… What I did, I’m sorry…”

“Stop this, love,” I say in a tone I’ve never used with him before. It silences him on the spot, but there’s still the sound of his agitated breathing. “Listen, Draco. Don’t ever apologize again for coming on my cock. Now that I’ve seen you do it, I expect you to treat me to a rerun as often as you possibly can. Understood? And just so you know, I’ve always wanted a partner I can cuddle with after sex.”

I cradle him from behind, stroking his head, and he calms down. His breathing evens out as we lie together, as I rest my face in the crook of his neck, breathing kisses onto his skin, inhaling his scent. I can’t help but wondering if it’s really true he can’t give me kids. His sex is so very different, this is so very different from anything I’ve known before. For all we know, his reproductive make-up might be all fairy. But I won’t say anything about it, not for now. Not as long as he’s still so insecure about his singularities.

I feel him tense up around me at intervals.

“Don’t try and push me out. I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works. And don’t fool yourself, baby. Even if you succeed in the end, I won’t ever let you go.”

He sighs and lets his whole body melt against mine. Finally, he’s allowing the depth of his satisfaction to show.

“So it was good for you, baby?” I ask. “That’s what you like? Me riding you good and thorough?”

I don’t have to see his face by now to know when he’s smirking.

“You’re better in bed than on a broom, that’s for sure.”

Funnily enough, I feel it’s the best line he could have come up with at this moment.

“Hey, careful there, fairy,” I say, gently tickling him under his left wing. He giggles languidly, then turns his head to the side to kiss me.

“You know what, Harry, I've decided I’m going to teach you some of my flying tricks. I’d say it’s only fair after you showed me how things are done in bed. How about the Malfoy Double Loop for starters? I’ve booked a training court for us this afternoon.”

“You’ve booked a court? But it’s Saturday! Saturday is Laundry Day...”

I break off, cursing myself for thinking aloud. Too late. He scoffs under me, the sound rife with contempt.

“Seriously. Laundry Day. I’ll have you tested for house elf genes one of these days, Potter.”

“I didn’t mean... I’m coming with you, of course, I only meant...”

He kisses me again, silencing me.

“I love you, Harry.” –

Perhaps I’ve already known that, perhaps I’ve known for a long time. But the words hit me like a Transforming Spell. They are like the completion of the ancient magic he’s been weaving over me for more than ten years, and I know that only now I am the man I was destined to be since I was born.

Yeah, I am the kind of guy with a destiny, the kind that has weird middle-aged ladies come up with pretentious prophesies, and yes, one of those even turned out to be accurate. But in the end it would seem it missed out on the most important part of my story.

HEA, Happy ever after.

I don’t believe in happy ever afters. Or do I?

All kinds of things can happen in the future. That’s why prophesies tend to be kept deliberately murky. But what’s happening to us right now isn’t murky. Not murky at all. It’s pure brightness, like the light embedded in my lover’s wings.

“Love you, too,” I say, and I bury my face in them and let their gentle shine soak through my skin, my body, my trembling soul. –

When half an hour later he releases me and shuts himself against me, it’s too soon. There’s no leakage. It seems he has absorbed my semen to the last ounce and stored it away in some secret, mythical place deep inside himself. I experience a jolt of excitement at what that might mean. What might be, one day.

James Lucius. Scorpius Severus. Lily Narcissa.

He turns around in my arms to face me, and his grey eyes are alight with stars like a northern summer night sky. I pull him in, fiercely. Whatever the future might hold in store, I’ll stay true to my word, I won’t let him go. Ever.

When he had discovered the shield amulet I had sewed into his jacket, he asked me to give him a heads-up next time I decided to put jewellery on him. It’s a great line to work into a proposal. And I’ll say something about happy ever afters, too. How I’ve found it doesn’t really matter if you believe in them, but how it matters to make them happen. And then I’ll ask him to let me.

Because Sirius’ cabinet is right.

He is The One.

He’s insanely beautiful, and he’s got stars in his eyes when he looks at me. He’s anything but ordinary in bed; in all probability he’s the only bottom in both the wizarding and the Muggle world who can do anal ejaculation. And he’ll always cuddle with me after sex, if only because he won’t be able to help it.

Yeah, he’s all I ever dreamt of.

And everything I never knew I wanted, too.

A Slytherin and potions whiz who’s annoying like only a Malfoy can be, who mixes up my day, and who’s only, only mine.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you had a good time with this story.
> 
> If you like, come visit me on my homepage [crystelgreene.com](https://www.crystelgreene.com/%20)!
> 
> Stay happy, stay foolish!  
> <3<3<3


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